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J 



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MRS. SHERWOOD'S WORKS. 



TO PARENTS, GUARDIANS, SUPERINTENDENTS OF SUNDAY 
SCHOOLS, AND THE PUBLIC GENERALLY. 



The Subscribers beg leave to solicit attention to their] 
republication, in a cheap and handsome edition, of the works of 
Mrs. Sherwood; being certainly one of the most admirable 
family series from the pen of a single writer in the English lan- 
guage. It is a fact somewhat remarkable, considering the great 
merit of these writings, their extensive and increasing popularity 
in England, and the favour with which such as are familiar to 
American readers have been received, that many of them have 
never been republished in this country; while some of the works 
published as Mrs. Sherwood's are in fact not her productions. 

The Subscribers have recently been favoured with a letter 
from the accomplished author, enclsoing a complete list ot ner 
works, which are more numerous than is commonly supposed. 
The subjects are exceedingly various, and adapted to different 
degrees of capacity, from that of opening youth, to tlie matured 
intellect of riper years ; but in all, the sentiments, the spirit, and 
the influence upon the mind are such as to command the warmest 
approbation of every enlightened Christian ; while in ttieir apti- 
tude for the cultivation of the understanding and the improve- 
ment of the heart, they challenge competition. These features 
render the works of Mrs. Sherwood peculiarly suitable for the 
libraries of Sunday-schools, and for families in which there are 
young persons ; at the same time, most of them are of such a 
nature as to afford both profit and delight to readers of every age. 

Impressed with these considerations, sensible not only of the 
value of the works themselves, but also of the benefits their 
more general-dissemination will be instrumental in producing, 
the Subscribers have determined upon their immediate republi- 
cation in a form worthy of their intrinsic merit. The editions 
heretofore produced in the United States, even of those portions 
that have been republished, have been, for the most part, inferior, 
and in some cases the works selected have been materially m- 
jured by alterations and abridgments. The contemplated edition 
will be printed in the same style as the edition of Miss Edge- 
worth's Tales pubUshed by the Subscribers,— with illustrations 



■C MRS. SHERWOOD S WORKS. 

on steel. The number of volumes will be hereafter ascertaiined 
and stated ; and the several works will, as far as practicable, be 
so arranged that each volume will be perfect in itself, and may 
be purchased separately, if desired. 

The first volume will contain the " History of Henry Milner ;" 
a story of singular interest, which has already gone through 
several editions in England, and of which the first part (the only 
portion that has yet been republished) has been most extensively 
read and admired in this country. The cost of the English copy 
is upwards of three dollars ; more than three times its price in 
the edition now proposed. 

The Subscribers are assured that the collection to which they 
invite the attention of th^'public will be found worthy of the same 
encouragement that has been extended to their previous standard 
publications. For that encouragement they avail themselves 
of the present opportunity to express their grateful sense ; and 
they with confidence present their contemplated edition of iVIrs. 
Sherwood's writings as evidence of their anxiety to merit its 
continuance. 

HARPER & BROTHERS. 



RECENTLY PUBLISHED. 



The TALES, NOVELS, &c. of MARIA EDGEWORTH. 

New and Complete Edition. Illustrated with Elegant Engrav- 
ings on Steel, in a series of Nine Volumes, 12mo. Either of 
which may be had separately. 

Vol. I. contains — Castle Rackrent — Essay on Irish Bulls — 
Essay on Self-Justification — Forester — The Prussian Vase — 
The Good Aunt. 

Vol. II. contains — Angelina — The Good French Governess — 
Mademoiselle Panache — The Knapsack — Lame Jervas— The 
Vt'ill— The Limerick Gloves— Out of Debt out of Danger— The 
Lottery — Rosanna. 

Vol. III. contains— Murad the Unlucky— The Manufacturers 
—The Contrast— The Grateful Negro— To-Morrow-Eoiui— 
The Dun. 

Vol. IV. contains— MancEuvring—Almira— Vivian. 

Vol. V. contains— The Absentee— Madame de Fleury— Emily 
de Coulanges — The Modern Griselda. 

Vol. VI. contains — Belinda. 

Vol. VII. contains— Leonora— Letters on Female Education 
— Patronage. 

Vol. VIII. contains— the remainder of Patronage — Comic 
Dramas. 

Vol. IX. contains— Harrington— Thoughts on Bores— Or- 
raond, &c. &,c. 



JNEW RELIGIOUS BOOKS, FOR GENERAL READINa 

J. & J. HARPER, NEW-YORK, 

HAVE ITO.W; IN THE COURSE OP REPUBLICATION 
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A DIGESTED SYSTEM OF RELIGIOUS AND 

ECCLESIASTICAL KNOWLEDGE, 

THE LIFE OP WICLIF. 

BY CHARLES WEBB LE BAS, M.A. 

Professor in the East India College, Herts ; and late Fellow of Trinity 

College, Cambridge. 

THE CONSISTENCY OF THE WHOLE SCHEME OF REVELA- 
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By p. N. Shuttlbvvorth, D.D. 
Warden of New College, Oxford. 

LUTHER AND THE LUTHERAN REFORMATION. 

By Rev. J. Scott. In 2 vols. Portraits, 

THE LIFE OF CRANMER. 

BY CHARLES W. LE BAS, M.A., 
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HISTORY OF THE REFORMED RELIGION IN FRANCE. 

By Edward Smedley, M.A. 
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Now republishing, on good paper and large type, in l8mo. volumes, 

SOCIAL EVILS, 

AND 

THEIR REMEDY. 

A SERIES OF NARRATIVES TO BE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY. 



BY THE 

REV. CHARLES B. TAYLER, M.A. 



No. I. 
THE MECHANIC 

IS NOW REPUBLISHED, AND FOR SALE BY THE BOOKSELLERS. 
'' Other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is Jesus Christ." 



AUTHOR'S ADDRESS. 

No doubt can be felt as to the fact, that there are at present 
many crying evils in all ranks of society — perhaps there never 
was a time when more remedies were proposed. It is, however, 
a melancholy truth, that the only remedy is too generally over- 
looked, or despised. Remedies, selfish in principle, and selfish 
in their proposed end, are held forth and confided in by those 
who profess to be Christians, and, as such, dependent on the 
Great Head of the church. Man is taught how to live in time, 
and to be wise for time ; but it has become unusual to refer to 
that fine old scriptural prayer, " So teach us to number our days 
that we may apply our hearts unto vvisdom." Indeed, the wis- 
dom desired by too many is that which is so forcibly described 
by an apostle's pen, as " earthly, sensual, devilish ;" not that 
wisdom the attributes of which form the graces of man's new 
and regenerate character, which is first pure, then peaceable, 
gentle, and easy to be entreated ; " full of mercy and good fruits, 
without partiality, and without hypocrisy." 

It is intended, in the series of narratives now advertised, to set 
forth, faithfully and simply, the one great principle on wluch 
Christians profess to act. This principle should never be lost 



mgl 
Ch 



SOCIAL EVILS, AND THEIR REMEDY. , 

ht of, in any publication addressed by a Christian author to 
ristian readers. " Other foundation can no man lay, than that 
is laid," laid by Infinite Wisdom himself— "which is Christ 
Jesus." My ilhistrations will extend to every class of society ; 
from the highest to the lowest. When it is found necessa'v to 
introduce the subject of political economy, I shall endeavour to 
give what seem to me the right views of the subject ; and I shall 
take care to show, that when political economy cannot be iden- 
tified with Christian economy, it ought to occupy a subordinate 
place. If it enters society as the servant of Christian orinciple, it 
may be very useful as a servant ; but, if it is to teach a man to 
walk in the counsel of the ungodly, to speak of its usefuhiess in 
a Christian community is absurd. 

False principles, however taking they may be, for a while, 
with the ignorant, or with those who are not deep thinkers, can 
never stand for any length of time ; and as for the ungodly, we 
know Who has told us they are " like the chaff which the wind 
driveth away." I have undertaken this work in a spirit of prayer 
to God for His assistance, and His blessing. Many of my readers, 
1 am sure, will unite their prayers to mine, that it may be con- 
tinued, in the same spirit. Some few may object to this address 
from a minister of Christ to a Christian community, and say that 
it is according to the puritanical cant of the day. 1 answer, that 
such cant (if mere cant) is quite as offensive to me as to them- 
selves ; almost as offensive as the cant of ungodlmess ; but I 
cannot forget those words of solemn warning, from One who, 
alas, is still the despised and rejected of many men : " Whoso- 
ever shall be ashamed of me an<l of my words, in this adulterous 
and sinful generation, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed, 
when he cometh in the glory of his Father with the holy- 
angels." 

The second number of " Social Evils," entitled " The Lady 
and the Lady's Maid," will be republished about the 1st of Feb- 
ruary, 1834. 



THEOLOGICAL LIBRARY. 

No. I. The Lifk op Wiclif. By Charles Webb Le Bas, A.M. 

II. The Consistency of the whole Scheme of Revela- 
tion with Itself and with Human Reason. By Philip 
Nicholas Shuttleworth, D.D. 

IIL, IV. Luther and the Lutheran Reformation. By 
John Scott, A.M. 

v., VI. The Life of Archbishop Cranmer. By Charles 
Webb Le Bas, A.M. 

VII., VIII. History of the Reformed Religion in France 
By Rev. Edward Smedley, M.A. In Press. 



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THE NOTE BOOK 



A COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. 



* Affliction then is ours. 
We are the trees whom shaking fastens more, 
While blust'ring winds destroy Ihe wanton bowers, 
And ruffle all their curious knots and store. 
My God ! so temper joy and woe, 
That thy bright beams may tame tiiy bow.' 



NEW-YORK : 

HARPER & BROTHERS, 

82 QLIFF-STREET, 

1833. 









Dorr & Butterfisld's n\t 



CONTENTS. 



MARRIAGE. 

CHAPTER I. 
EARLY DAYS 15 

CHAPTEK II. 
SUNNY DAYS 25 

CHAPTER III. 
STORMY DAYS 27 

CHAPTER IV. 
MORE TRIALS 30 

CHAPTER V. 
A SMUGGLER'S LIFE 38 

CHAPTER VI. 
A SMUGGLER'S DEATH 60 

CHAPTER VII. 
A MOTHER'S SORROWS 66 



CONTENTS. 

THE FUNERAL. 77 

CONFESSION. 

CHAPTER 1 97 

CHAPTER II. / 104 

CHAPTER III 110 

CHAPTER IV 132 

THE HALL. 

CHAPTER I. ... - 147 

CHAPTER II 183 

THE GRANDFATHER. 

CHAPTER I. 
THE CHURCH-YARD 209 

CHAPTER II. 
QUIETNESS IN JOY 214 

CHAPTER III. 
JOY IN SADNESS 218 



MARRIAGE. 



-" Your heart was hard I fear- 



Indeed 'tis true 

Truly friend, 
For aught I hear, your master shows to you 
More favour than you wot of. Mark the end. 
The font did only what was old renew ; 
The caldron suppled what was grown too hard. 
The thorns did quicken what was grown too dull. 
All did but strive to mend what you had niarr'd, 
Therefore be cheer' d, and praise him to the full, 
Each day, each hour, each moment of the week, 
Who fain would have you be, new, tender, quick." 

Hebbekt. 



MARRIAGE. 

CHAP. I. 

EARLY DAYS. 

A NICER looking couple than George and 
Mary Adams, never knelt together before the 
altar of our parish church to receive the mar- 
riage benediction. ■ Nor were there often seen in 
our village, more kind greetings than those with 
which they were welcomed as they left the porch. 
They were, indeed, both of them, general favour, 
ites. They had always lived amongst us ; and 
there was not a more good humoured open-hearted 
lad in the village than George Adams : he was 
industrious too in the main, except when he was 
drawn from work by a fair, a revel, or some 
other country gaiety. He was, upon the v/hole, 
sober ; though cheerful company and high spirits 
led him sometimes into excesses, of which he was 
heartily ashamed afterwards. He was strong, 
too, and active ; the cottage, of which he and his 
wife were to take possession, was adorned with 



16 EARLY DAYS. 

many rustic luxuries — the fruits of his own re- 
cent providence ; or the gifts of approving friends. 
Altogether he was quite a prize in the village : 
and in the opinion of most around them, few 
were more to be envied than the mother of one 
who had drawn so high a number in the lottery 
of husbands, as had fallen to young Mary Adams. 
But this opinion, tljough general, was not univer- 
sal ; and amongst those who did not entertain it, 
was one for whose full approbation of her mar- 
riage, Mary longed more than that of all the rest 
of the village together. 

Her mother, who was now advancing in the 
vale of years, was one who had long learned to 
judge of matters by a very different rule from 
that which most of her neighbours employed. 
Perhaps it was that she had been early left a 
widow, by a husband whom she had loved even 
from her infancy. This, at least, was the reason 
always given in the village, for the alteration 
which they could not but observe in the dame ; 
she and her husband had been loved by all their 
neighbours, and when the evil day came, she had 
many thronging round her to give her comfort. 
All their kind endeavours, however, seemed to 
do her little good ; and she felt herself that she 
was happiest, when the door was shut at night ; 
and ^vhen, with the cradle, in Avhich little Mary 



EAKLX DAYS. 17 

slept, near her, she could take down her husband's 
Bible, and read the sweet words which it con- 
tained, whilst no one observed the tears which 
ran down her cheeks, or the hands which were 
often clasped together, as if in a struggle between 
grief and prayer. Her neighbours noticed by- 
degrees, how fond she seemed to be growing of 
this quiet life ; and they were afraid that, if she 
mused so much over her sorrov/s, it would turn 
her head. But there was no such danger truly ; 
she was always glad to see me, and many a joy- 
ful visit did I pay to her cottage. For the Lord 
had indeed touched her soul, and she had found 
that consolation which he only can give to the 
sorrowing heart. The voice of her Saviour's 
sympathy was what soothed her grief, and he 
was gently raising again the head of the bruised 
reed. She came out of the furnace of affliction 
purified by its fires. She was seen again in the 
village, and mixed with her neighbours ; and 
though a touch of seriousness might always be 
perceived in the tone of her spirit ; though now 
and then even a tear might start into her eye, 
and though she was not the same light-hearted, 
gleeful spirit that she had been before, yet no one 
ever found her make them sad by her company. 
If the gaiety was less loud in her presence, it was 
not less truly cheerful ; she was always welcome 
B2 



18 EARLY DAYS. 

every where ; but in sickness or in sorrow, no 
one else could be thought of: her coming was 
like the cool breeze to the fevered head ; like 
the first dawn in the night tempest. Many an 
eye, when it saw, blessed her ; many a spirit at 
the last day will, I doubt not, bless her again, as 
having been to them in sorrow and in sickness, 
of a truth the messenger of peace. 

Many were the village suitors who contended 
for her hand, but to all of them she gave the 
same answer. It was always kind, though it 
left them no hope of ever succeeding, and they 
all went away her friends ; her only earthly care 
seemed to be to provide for her child, and hard 
did she work to maintain her in comfort. No 
cottage was so clean as hers ; and as she grew 
up, there was not a tidier or better instructed girl 
in the parish than little Mary. Even from her 
earliest years, she heard of God her Maker, and 
Christ her Saviour ; and her little hands were 
joined in prayer, night and morning, by her pious 
mother. It seemed that her labours and her 
prayers were not wasted ; for as little Mary grew 
up, her conduct made all who knew her, hope 
that she would be the staff of her mother's age. 
She was of a peculiarly gentle spirit, with a 
warmth of affection which secured the love of 
all who knew her. We hoped too, that there 



EARLY DAYS, 19 

was more than this ; that she had indeed sought 
the God of her mother, and that the seed which 
was sown within her heart, though it might be 
checked at times by the waywardness of youth, 
would yet one day be ripened and matured to an 
abundant harvest. At the season of confirma- 
tion she was brought more especially under my 
care ; she was a ready learner of all that was to 
be learned ; and she seemed to feel deeply what 
ought then to be felt. She confessed the unwor- 
thiness of her best services, and with true sin- 
cerity she devoted herself to the service of her 
God. Nor did the impression pass away, as it 
too often does, " like the early dew." It would 
be impossible to forget the joy which beamed in 
the countenance of her widowed mother, when a 
few months afterwards, Mary, having finished a 
course of preparatory instruction, presented her- 
self at the table of the Lord to seal her former 
vows. Aflier a while a place was fdtrad for her 
in an excellent family in the neighbourhood. — 
The parting with her daughter was hard to the 
mother ; but she had too long learned that the* 
■oath of duty was truly the easiest to walk in, to 
hesitate for a moment upon the subject. Mary 
bore the highest character in her new situation. 
From time to time she visited her own village — 
and latterly the vigilant eye of affection had 



20 EAELY DAYS. 

detected symptoms which made her mother fear 
lest her spirituality of mind should be in some de- 
gree injured, by the loss of that assistance which 
had helped to support her at home, and by the 
presence of new difficulties and temptations. To 
other eyes there was not the smallest diflference. 
Mary was praised by all — and whilst the widow 
heard these commendations with thankful plea- 
sure, her own apprehensions only led her to be 
yet more earnest in prayer for her beloved child. 

At one of these visits it was observed that 
George was more than heretofore in her society, 
and her mother perceived that she was fonder of 
his company. She immediately spoke to her 
upon the subject ; for it had always been her en- 
deavour to make her child her friend, and they 
had no secrets from each other. She set before 
her the character of George. She asked her 
' whetheHie was one who would lead her in the 
narrow wR^?' 

' Oh, my^hild,' she would say to her, ' you 
cannot well think what a hindrance it would be 
to you to be married to one who did not truly love 
your Master. I have seen many such matches ; 
and I never saw a happy one ; either the flame 
of godliness was damped, and for aught we could 
see, put out in the wife ; or it was through a sad 
and a bitter path that she walked. Never, my 



EARLY DAYS. 21 

child^ never let me^ee you give your heart to 
one who does not fear and love God.' 

Mary loved her mother ; she knew that she 
was right, and she resolved to act upon her'Opi. 
nion ; and when George soon after spoke >to her 
of marrying, she told him how her mother felt^ 
and added that she could never think of marry^ 
ing him. George promised that he would be a 
steadier man, that her mother should see him so 
much altered, that her objections would be given 
up ^ and Mary was not quite so firm in her refusal 
as she had been ; and though she would not with- 
draw it, yet George thought that he had ground 
for hoping that the day might come when she 
would. He loved her much ; and this was mo- 
tive enough to lead him to be more attentive to 
all his duties than he had been. All the neigh- 
bours remarked how regular George was become 
at church, — how steady in his work ; whilst his 
alehouse friends tempted him in vain to join them ; 
he even stood pretty well the jeers in which their 
invitations ended. 

During her occasional visits to her mother, 
Mary of course met him, and heard of his im- 
provement. It was not without disquiet that the 
widow viewed the progress of his intercourse 
with her daughter. But she thought that the 
course which wisdom prescribed to her, was to 



23 EABLY DAYS. 

take no direct notice of the^atter. Her daugh- 
ter, she was sure, saw in her silent observation 
of all that passed, abundant testimony of her un- 
changed opinions. There was, however, mean- 
while a slow and gradual alteration in Mary's 
own feelings. She was becoming more and more 
attached to the young man. She could not ex- 
actly approve of/ her inclination to retract her 
refusal, but she had not strength of principle 
enough to act ^ up to what she knew to be right. 
Thus conscience was wounded ; and this, as it 
did not open her eyes at once to her real state, 
began directly to impair the spirituality of her 
mind. Indulged sin was beginning to separate 
between God and her soul. The next step was 
to endeavour to quiet conscience, first, by turn- 
ing her eyes away wilfully from its suggestions ; 
and then, after a while, by discovering answers 
to them. It was when her mind was in this 
state, that her mother first renewed the subject 
with her. 

' George Adams is much improved, my dear, 
during the last year.' 

Mary, who was working near her mother, did 
not dare to look up ; but busying herself more 
earnestly than ever, merely answered, 'Yes, 
mother ; every body says how much better he 
goes on now,' 



EARLY DAYS. 23 

* Do you think, Mary, that there is any seri- 
ousness of mind about him V 

' I should think so ; how regular he is at 
church !' 

'It is easy to be regular at church, Mary, 
whilst the heart is not given up to God. Does 
he ever talk to you about what you used to love 
to speak of to me V 

Mary's countenance crimsoned over, for con- 
science told her the full meaning of her mother's 
speech. The old woman laid down her knitting, 
and looking at Mary, said, ' Come, my dear 
child, you and I must always be frank with one 
another ; do you wish to change your mind about 
marrying George V 

Mary made no answer. 

' My dear child,' said the widow, ' you well 
know what my love is toward jq$i ; God grant 
that it be not too great. I fear that you have 
been by little and little changing your mind about 
him — and yet, Mary, is his heart changed ? Is 
he a companion fit for eternity ? Oh, my child, 
if you marry one who does not truly fear God, 
what sorrow will you bring upon yourself ! If 
you are, as I trust you are, one of God's chil- 
dren, you will bring many afflictions upon your 
head ; for you will need them to prevent your 
fixing your heart upon this world ; and oh, if it 
should be the means of drawing your heart away 



24 EARLY DAYS. 

from God, and making you forget all you liave 
felt and resolved,' — 

The old woman was stopped by the force of 

■ ••her ^elmgs ; Mary too was in tears. She threw 

her^ms round her mother's neck, and would 

have promised her any thing, to comfort her 

then. 

' No, Mary,' sraid her mother, ' I would not 
have you promise me now any thing which you 
will hereafter repent of having said. Thinli over 
it, my child, and pray over it ; and I will speak 
for you to our minister about it, and he shall ad- 
vise you what to do in the matter.' 

Mary could not but consent to this, because it 
was her mother's wish, though she could scarcely 
bear to have it mentioned to another. For she 
could hardly hide, even from herself, the testi- 
mony of herlfcjgnscience, or the consciousness 
that her inclination was likely to prove too strong 
for her principles. 

It was not long before the matter was men- 
tioned to me, or before I found an opportunity of 
conversing with Mary. I could do little else than 
repeat her mother's warnings. The young man 
was undoubtedly improved for the time ; but 
there was no appearance whatever of any real 
change in his character, of his heart being con- 
verted to God ; and earthly affections, as I told 
her, were poor things to build upon for comfort 



SUNNY DAYS. 25 

here. How too could she expect happiness in a 
marriage with one who, if she sincerely wished 
to serve God, could have no community at all of 
feeling, in what must be most important in her 
eyes? 

She took my advice kindly, with many tears ; 
and I believe many resolutions of acting up to it ; 
and we parted with an earnest prayer for her, 
that she might ' perceive what she ought to do, 
and also have grace and strength faithfully to 
perform the same.' 

In less however than a year from this time, 
with a stifled conscience, and with the consent, 
though not- the approbation of her mother, she 
agreed to become the wife of Adams. When it 
was once settled, her mother wisely forbore all 
further opposition ; and she joined with me in 
praying that a blessing might still be vouchsafed 
to her beloved daughter. 



CHAP. II. 

SUNNY DAYS. 

Adams and his wife were now established in 
their cottage, and all around them bespoke a more 
than ordinary degree of comfort. The widow was 
C 



26 SUNNY DAYS. 

often with her daughter, endeavouring to improve 
every thing to her spiritual good. Whenever I 
visited them I was always welcome, though I felt 
that Mary's manner was constrained towards me. 
I knew that this was owing to the uneasiness of 
her conscience, and the feeling that she had acted 
contrary to my advice, and to her mother's wish. 
Her religious character was evidently lowered. 
But it was, she perhaps thought herself, no more 
than the necessary effect of her increased cares 
and new situation. She hoped that some day or 
other she should be able to converse with her hus- 
band as she had been used to do with her mother, 
upon spiritual things. There were indeed times 
when conscience would speak ; when she was 
forced to cast restless glances inward ; and when 
the effect of this was visible in uneasiness of mind. 
But for the most part she was still evidently qui- 
eting conscience ; and external prosperity enabled 
her to do this the more easily. All things went 
well with her outwardly ; the affection of her hus- 
band appeared to be undiminished ; his habits of 
life in the main preserved their improved tone. He 
had work in abundance, and health to enable him 
to perform it ; and her children, of whom she had 
now three, were remarkably healthy and intelli- 
gent. Often would her pious mother remind her, 
that these days could not last forever, and exhort 



STORMY DAYS. 27 

her earnestly to be " laying up her treasure in 
heaven and not upon the earth." She would Hs- 
ten attentively to all that was said to her, but it 
evidently fell upon different ears than those which 
used to drink in the holy words of her beloved 
mother. 



CHAP. III. 
STORMY DAYS. 

It was shortly before the birth of her fourth 
child that these bright days began to cloud over. 
Her mother, who had been growing very infirm 
of late, fell really ill, and was confined entirely to 
her bed. Mary watched with a full heart her 
declining strength ; and nursed her with continual 
and careful affection. The old widow would of- 
ten look upon her in silence for minutes together 
till the tears chased one another down her cheeks. 
Her great delight was to get her daughter to read 
the word of God to her. At last she said to her 
one day, ' Mary, I shall be but a short time longer 
with you, and I must tell you what my heart has 
long been full of. I fear, my girl, that your af- 
fections are being by little and little weaned from 
heavenly things. Your conscience has been 



28 STORMY DAYS. 

uneasy ; and this has made prayer, and reading 
God's book for yourself tiresome to you. Oh, Mary, 
remember how we have prayed together and read 
those blessed promises ; now listen to your dying 
mother, — there is nothing but these hopes which 
can bear up our souls when we come to die : then 
there is nothing in the world worth a thought, but 
being indeed at pedce with the great God through 
Jesus Christ. Pray that you may not be left to 
wander from God ; and when I am gone think over 
these things : return to God indeed, and beg of him, 
if you have done amiss, to enable you to come to him 
again, as a penitent child, through your Redeemer. 
And if he sends afflictions upon you — and I can- 
not help having a sort of feeling that troubles will 
come upon you — oh, do not let a hard heart keep 
you away from him ; but cast yourself before him ; 
and pray that you may be enabled to return to 
him. It may be. Mar}'-, that the troubles which he 
sends you will prove your choicest blessings. 

She spoke more to her oftentimes to this effect 
while her strength lasted — for it was but a few 
days after this, that though her lips moved, and 
though her voice could be heard doubtless by the 
angel messenger who was waiting for the dying 
saint, yet to us who stood round her bed no 
sound was audible. Calmly and sweetly she 
breathed her last : — prayer was her latest occu- 



STORMY DAYS. 29 

pation — her eyes followed the daughter of her love, 
until it seemed as if they were fixed on something 
which we saw not — and then with her mild fea- 
tures kindling into the expression of praise, she 
peacefully yielded up her soul into the hands of 
her Redeemer. 

As I knelt beside her bed in prayer with the fa- 
mily, and heard her daughter's heart-breaking 
sobs, earnestly did I pray that this might prove 
that loving correction which should bring back 
again the wandering child to her Heavenly Fa- 
ther. And such did seem to be its effect : the les- 
sons which she had learned around her mother's 
bed, and over her open grave, were written deeply 
upon her heart. And had her husband been one 
who would have led her on, who can say but that 
even her burdened conscience would have found 
relief in her full return to her ' first and early 
love.' But all that she met with from Adams was 
in fact injurious to her. He endeavoured to dis- 
pel her grief, by leading her by degrees into 
amusement. * The wholesome lessons of sorrow 
were gradually effaced, the opportunity of good 
was lost — and this chastisement had evidently 
passed over her and left its purpose unfulfilled. In 
the season of affliction, she had resolved to attend 
again at the Lord's Table ; but before the next 
time when it was administered, the freshness of 
C2 



30 MORE TRIALS. 

her thoughts of good was passed, and the business 
of the family and other real difficulties appeared 
to her to be insuperable hindrances. 

I saw less and less of her — she did not seek to 
meet me ; and though I hoped earnestly that the 
time might come when I could promise myself 
some benefit from my visits to her, I thought that 
this was not that season. The chilling frost had 
thrown its icy mantle over the upper surface at 
least of that fresh stream of affections which in 
youth had flowed so freshly. My trust was, that 
it might yet melt away, and leave the water to its 
true and happy motion. 



CHAP. IV. 

MORE TRIALS. 

The next few years of Mary's life were not 
marked by any uncommon feature : she had in- 
deed some trials to which she had hitherto been a 
stranger. The last infant had never known the 
health with which her elder children had been 
blessed ; when about nine months old, it had suf- 
fered severely from fits — and many a bitter hour 
did its mother spend in watching over it. Like 
every true-hearted parent, she was taught by the 



MgRB TRIALS. 31 

voice of God within^ Her to love with deeper ten- 
derness the sickly little one who needed all a mo- 
ther's care, — she succeeded in keeping alive <|;he 
faints spark of life, and the bodily health of the 
child had of late strengthened, though all but its 
partial mother saw but too evident symptoms of 
the injury which her mind had sustained. She 
was not, however, yet of an age to make this 
painfully certain, and Mary never doubted but 
that restored health would leave her dai'ling clear 
of all infii-mity. 

It was five years after her mother's death 
when sickness again visited her family. Her 
husband was attacked by a painful and lingering 
fever. It left him, after many weeks of harass, 
ing anxiety, feeble and dispirited. Times were 
hard, — and his lost time pressed heavily upon the 
spirits of Adams. He retui-ned to work with a 
heavy and desponding mind, — his rent was in 
arrears, and his landlord talked of finding another 
tenant, — his credit at the village shop was almost 
gone. He was not a man to bear up against 
such difficulties as these ; he had not the spring 
of true piety, which shews more nobly perhaps 
in the poor man struggling against the hard 
waves of the stormy sea of want, than in any 
other ordinary circumstances. 

The cold weather came, and the little corner 



32 MORE TBl||9. 

of his garden which had a^i^ys held his stack of 
faggots was empty ; it was hard to see his wife 
aij children pinched by cold, and the hand of 
Adams was raised against his master's hedges. 
An inexperienced purloiner is commonly awk- 
ward, and the guilt of more cautious theft was 
laid upon him. — The consequence was, that he 
lost, after some angry words, a master whom he 
had long served — and set out with a soured tem- 
per to find (no easy matter) a new employer. 
After an idle day, as he passed sullenly by the 
public house, he heard in it the sounds of mirth, 
and almost without a thought he rushed into it. He 
was welcomed by some of his old companions ; 
their fare was forced upon him, and its effect 
upon one now unaccustomed to it soon drove from 
his mind the feelings of shame which had risen 
upon him when he found himself again where he 
had been so long a stranger. 

In the corner of the fire-place, and next to 
Adams, sat one with whom he had never been on 
terms of intimacy. Lowe was a man who seem- 
ed always to have money at command and yet to 
do nothing wherewith to earn it ; — his character, 
therefore, was not of course good, and Adams had 
always shunned him : now, however, he was by 
little and little engaged in conversation with him : 
he had told him his difficulties — his wrongs — his 



MOlte TEIALS. 33 

want of work. iJc^e sympathized with him ; 
was indignant against his master ; and ventured 
at last, when, from Adams's raised tone it seeii&ed 
as if-his head was not altogether clear, to hint 
darkly that there were still means by which he 
might regain his former prosperity, and that 
honestly enough if he had the heart to make a 
venture ; — his hearer, however, shewed no incli- 
nation to take the hint, and Lowe was too crafty 
a tempter to shock his drowsy virtue by pressing 
him to take a step for which he was not yet pre- 
pared. 

Adams declared his intention of seeking for 
work on the morrow at another farm, and return- 
ed home not entirely sober to his wife. It was a 
new and painful source of grief to her to receive 
him thus, though she tried to invent excuses for 
the weakness which she could scarcely hide from 
herself. Farmer Walton wanted no new hands, 
being scarcely able to keep on those whom he had 
got already ; and Adams turned homeward with a 
heavy heart, after another idle day. As he 
walked sadly home, the hint which Lowe had 
dropped, came often into his mind, and he felt half 
disposed to question him further upon the matter. 
— ' He spoke of getting money honestly,' said he 
to himself, ' besides, there can be no harm in hear- 
ing what he has got to say ; it will be time enough 



34 MORE TRIALS. 

to refuse to liave a hand in it when I know better 
what it is.' But his conscience told him that 
there must be something wrong in it ; and he had 
just determined to have nothing to say to him, as 
he reached the door of his cottage. His melan- 
choly looks told his wife that he had been unsuc- 
cessful ; and he perceived that something had 
been vexing her. ' Their landlord had been to see 
him — he had heard of his quarrel with his master ; 
feared for his arrears of rent, and ending by say- 
ing, that unless the rent was paid up by that day 
week, he should find another tenant. 

Adams sat for a few minutes with his face 
buried in his hands ; and then rising, almost with- 
out saying a word, he left the cottage in spite of 
his wife's intreaties. He went straight to Lowe's, 
he was not at home — he was at the public-house 
— not choosing to speak with him there, Adams 
sent a little girl to fetch him home. They were 
soon in conversation ; and as Lowe perceived at 
once the state of George's mind, he opened to him 
his plans without hesitation. 

He was a smuggler, — and he wanted assistance 
in his illicit trade. The vei-y next night he ex- 
pected a cargo of spirits, if he could get men 
enough to man his boat and effect the landing of 
the tubs ; and he offered Adams a high price if he 
would give him his assistance. The bait was tempt- 



MORE TRIALS. 35 

ing ; to secure him for the first time, Lowe had 
offered him a large proportion of the expected 
profits. 

* But you assured me that it was an honest way 
of getting money.' 

< And is it not honest ? Do not I pay honestly 
for every drop ?' 

* Yes, but the excise, Lowe ?' 

* What right has the government to make me 
pay over again for it, when I have bought it like 
an honest man ? Besides, it is only fair play be- 
tween us ; for if they can catch me, they do ; and 
if they can't, why then, the more's the luck.' 

Adams had many scruples, but he was sorely 
tempted to comply. He thought of his wife and 
children, scarcely supplied with food and clothing ; 
he thought of his rent — of the next Friday when 
he must leave the cottage in which he had lived 
ever since his marriage — of the little garden 
where were still growing several flowers planted 
by the widow's hand — and he began to excuse 
his inclinations to sin, by thinking how great was 
his temptation. 

Lowe saw that he was wavering, and dropped 
a hint as if he thought that Adams was afraid to go. 

This was too much for him ; false shame was 
added to his other feelings, and he consented to 
join in the scheme. 



36 MORE TRIALS. 

He came back perfectly sober, to the great joy 
of poor Mary ; she thought that the gloom which 
hung over him was nothing more than she had of 
late noticed, and she tried to encourage him with 
the prospect of getting work again. He was si- 
lent and thoughtful ; and poor Mary, with a sigh, 
remembered how sweetly she had seen her mother 
bear affliction, and conscience told her what it 
was which had been her support. She wiped 
away the tear which rose in her eyes, lest it 
should damp still more her husband's spirits. 

Little sleep had he that night, and he rose early 
under pretence of seeking for work, but truly to 
avoid the presence of his wife, from whom he 
meant to conceal his plan. 

Many times in the day did George resolve to 
have nothing to do M'ith the business ; but his 
heart failed him again when he thought of what 
was before him, otherwise ; and at last he made 
a sort of compromise with conscience, determining 
that he would never go again if he this once suc- 
ceeded. 

At last the evening came. !Nfever had Adams 
spent so long a day — he went home, and telling 
Mary that he was obliged to go and see a friend 
who had sent for him, and should not be home till 
late, he set off to the appointed rendezvous. When 
once engaged in the business, the natural courage 



MORE TRIALS. 37 

of George's charactei* made him altogether fear- 
less, and in the perilous business of escaping the 
coast guard, he showed so much activity, bold- 
ness, and resource, that he was overwhelmed with 
praises by his companions in evil. 

The expedition was perfectly successful ; and 
when at midnight they parted at the house of 
Lowe, he promptly gave to Adams his promised 
share. Even as he thrust his ill-acquired wealth 
into his pocket, George was miserable and dissa- 
tisfied with himself. However he turned home- 
ward, and as he reached his cottage perceived a 
light still burning at the window. Mary was sit- 
ting up for him ; her look of eager inquiry as he 
entered the roorn stung him to the quick ; for 
though she had not said one word to him on his 
insobriety the other night, he saw how constantly 
and painfully the recollection of it was present to 
her mind. He walked towards that part of the 
room in which she was sitting, and with an air, 
almost of violence, threw the money upon the 
table. Mary turned pale — she was faint at heart, 
and dreadful sufeiises filled her mind. 

' Oh George, what are these V she almost 
whispered, in a tone which bespoke her violent 
agitation. It was long before the whole tale was 
told. It was one of the deepest affliction to Mary. 
There had been so much of irritability about her 
D 



38 A SMUGGLER S LIl'E. 

husband lately, that she scarcely dared to tell him 
what she felt ; her looks bespoke it ; and even 
those he seemed at first unable to bear calmly. 
He was, however, quieted by the next morning ; 
he was offered a good place with a neighbouring 
farmer, the rent was ready, and there was a trifle 
over to help his sinking credit. As soon as she 
saw that her husband would bear it, most ear- 
nestly did Mary entreat him never again to risk 
his life in such unlawful enterprises. Poverty, 
any thing she assured him was lighter to her, than 
that he should be exposed to perish in a moment 
in such a course. Adams was won by her affec- 
tionate earnestness ; he was uneasy and discon- 
tented with himself, and he resolved most firmly 
never again to join in a smuggling adventure. 



CHAP. V. 

A smuggler's life. 

It is not often, that such resolutions as those 
which Adams made, ripen into lasting habits. 
They are .the growth of the natural mind ; they 
are made in its strength ; and they soon wither 
away, because they have no deepness of earth in 
which to strike their roots. And thus it was with 



A smuggler's IIFE, 39 

his. They endured for a time, while the impres. 
sion of his first feeling of remorse lasted ; but 
when this had faded from his mind, and when 
temptation was again pressing, he fell even more 
easily than at first into the same courses. A 
second want of work ; the temptations of the ale- 
house, which he had never again totally aban- 
doned ; the solicitations, and the taunts of his late 
companions, and his own natural love of pleasures 
which the gains of his ordinary labour did not put 
within his power, led him, by degrees, to seek to 
obtain his living by the practice of smuggling. 
He had nominally become a fisherman, having 
the half of a small boat, and using it for the pur- 
pose of fishing when the weather served. 

It was not the work of a day, or even of a year, 
to fix the character of Adams in this new and ru- 
inous occupation. But by little and little the 
change was effected. I- spoke frequently both to 
himself and his wife ; but it was in vain. At 
times, I believed he sincerely resolved to break 
the fetters which were being wound around him, 
but they were too strong for him to struggle against 
in his own strength ; and for one mightier than 
his, which could have helped him, he never, that 
I perceived, sought in earnest. There never yet, 
I believe, was a confirmed smuggler, whose whole 
moral character was not ruined by his employ- 



40 A smuggler's life. 

merits. There is a hardihood and recklessness, a 
distaste for quiet employments, a love of company 
and noise, which always marks the man ; and to 
this is not seldom added the habit of gross intem- 
perance. He who has been admired as the vir- 
tual leader of the band, longs for the applause of 
his companions, when they are talking over past, 
and planning futiire adventures; and the purer 
pleasures of home soon pall upon the morbidly 
excited taste. So it was here ; one bad habit fol- 
lowed another ; the breach which was begun by 
smuggling, was widened by a love of dissolute 
company, until intemperance, and with it all its 
sure concomitants followed, wave after wave, until 
the wreck of the once promising edifice could 
scarcely be known. Poor Mary suffered keenly 
and constantly from the alteration in her hus- 
band's character and pursuits. As year after 
year passed on, grief seemed to eat more and 
more deeply into her soul. It appeared to be 
rendering her feelings dull ; there was a sleepi- 
ness about them so utterly unlike their early 
spring. Yet every now and then, when any 
grosser excess, or more daring risk on the part 
of her husband, or any other heavy family afflic- 
tion overtook her, I could plainly see, by the im- 
petuous outbreaking of her feelings, that the cur- 
rent was really hurrying on, beneath the cold 



A SMUGGIER's IIPE. 41 

misty veil which hung over them. Yet all this 
time there was no appearance of affliction pro- 
ducing its proper effect ; so far from it, she seemed 
stupified or hardened by its strokes, and often did 
I lament over her, as one, the promise of whose 
early years v^as for ever fled. It was not only 
her husband's conduct which pressed heavily up- 
on her. The evil example of their father produced 
its natural effect upon Mary's children. The eld- 
est boy soon threw ofTthe restraints of the village 
school, despised advice, and became the compa- 
nion of his father's hazards, and his father's sins. 

The second seemed for a while more promising. 
I hoped that this one scion of an evil stock might 
be trained to bear good fruit : but he too was 
overcome by temptation, and was following in the 
course of his elder brother, when a severe fit of 
sickness seized him, and after a lingering fever, 
carried him off, leaving us in awful uncertainty 
as to his eternal condition. 

But there was another blow which struck even 
deeper into the mother's heart, than the loss of 
this boy ; the eldest daughter had long shown, in 
her flaunting manners, and showy dress, that the 
society of her father's friends was fatal to maiden 
modesty. With what an agony of apprehension 
did her mother watch over her, and yet how per- 
fectly sturmed did she appear at last when the hour 
D2 



42 A smcgglek's life. 

of her shame arrived. Her father's bitter anger 
against tliat for wliicli he had unconsciously pre- 
pared the way ; her mother's deep sorrow ; her 
own shame, all pressed together upon the undis- 
ciphned mind of the poor girl ; and led her to 
complete her own destruction by flying from her 
father's house — never, alas ! to enter it again — 
nor ever to send to it one comforting message of 
repentance to say that there was a gleam of hope, 
before death closed the short career of her sin and 
misery. Oh, how could the sainted spirit of the 
aged widow have borne to look now upon this fa- 
mily — whence peace had fled ; and where sin with 
all its progeny of curses, seemed to have taken up 
its haunt ? But she did not see it — for however 
in the consummation of all things, eyes which 
have been mortal, may be strengthened by the 
light of God's immediate presence, to glorify him 
in all his ways ; yet suspense is surely spared 
them while the mystery is yet unaccomplished, 
and a veil is drawn in mercy over the strugglings 
and buffetings of those who have not yet like 
themselves, escaped from the storms of life. 

Many such years passed over the head of Mary, 
but it seemed at last that a crisis had arrived. 
Her husband and son set out one day as usual 
upon their unlawful business. It had become so 
common an occurrence, that her positive appre- 



A smuggler's life. 43 

liensions were greatly diminished. Adams had 
been always prosperous. Bold and enterprising 
above others, it seemed as if the elements were in 
league with him ; and his fellows deemed success 
certain, when he was their director. The cargo 
which they were attempting to run was more than 
usually valuable. It was landed and most of it 
safely carried off, when Adams, who was left 
almost alone with what remained, was suddenly 
seized by the collar, and commanded in the King's 
name to stand. The night was pitch dark, and 
small rain had just begun to fall. The few who 
remained behind perceived, however, by the sound 
of the voice, that they were discovered , and not 
knowing that Adams was seized, or the number 
of their assailants, they slunk off, and made for 
their several homes. 

He himself seemed at the instant dismayed, and 
indisposed to make any resistance ; it was the first 
time that he had ever been so circumstanced, and 
his presence of mind was for a moment shaken. 
It was, however, but for a moment. He perceived 
that his assailant was alone, and though he knew 
him to be armed, he determined to make an effort 
for his liberty. He flung himself upon his captor 
— he felt the loaded pistol — he grasped it — ;he 
turned its point from himself before it could be 
fired. In the strife it went off, but hurt neither 



44 A SMUGGLER S LIFE. 

of them. Still the struggle continued ; and both 
of them were grasping at the dagger which was 
buckled at the waist of the preventive man. 
Adams was far the stronger of the two, but his 
antagonist was active, and had the readiest mode 
of reaching the weapon, which must in a moment 
end the conflict. At this instant, as they reeled 
to and fro in mortal conflict, the ground which the 
rain had softened, yielded to their feet, and they 
fell together. Neither would relinquish his grasp, 
and as they struggled on the ground, they had, 
without knowing it, reached the very edge of the 
cliff. A desperate effort from Adams, which 
shook off the grasp of his enemy, made them first 
aware of it. But it was, alas ! by the fall of the 
unhappy man over the precipice. 

The first descent was not perfectly perpendicu- 
lar ; then there came a ledge of bare cliff; and 
from below a shelf which bounded that, the pre- 
cipice set sheer down into the sea at high water, 
and to the rugged rocks which encircled its base 
at other times. Over each of these Adams heard 
him fall ; with a faint shriek or rather yell, as for 
an instant he seemed to hang upon the first shelf; 
then all was silent for a moment ; while Adams 
held his breath in agony for a space of time which 
seemed to him almost infinite, until he heard the 
heavy plunge of a large falling body into the dark 



A smuggler's life. 45 

waves which were moamng below. It seemed 
as if in faUing he had disturbed the wild pos- 
sessors of those cliffs, for just before that splash, 
he heard the sudden cry as of a startled sea-bird ; 
then all was hushed again except the moaning of 
the sea, or its hoarse grating murmuring, as the 
retiring surge heaved the pebbles before it, in the 
little bay where his boat was moored, round the 
edge of the cliff. 

Adam's first feeling after the pause of a mo- 
ment, when the instinct of self-preservation over- 
came the agony of his mind, was to rush from the 
spot before any of the companions of the man 
could come to his assistance. But he had scarcely 
gained his feet when he saw lights gleaming in 
the mist, already almost upon him. Others too, 
in his direct path, — and beyond that, some who 
seemed making straight for the village to cut off 
the retreat of any stragglers, deprived him of all 
hope of escape. In a moment he had determined 
upon his plan ; he crept slowly and carefully 
down the edge of the cliff, reached the shelf which 
we have described, and with the steady tread 
which experience in such hazards can alone be- 
stow, edged himself some yards along it, and there 
crouched in a chasm in the very face of the pre- 
cipice. 

»Soon he saw the lights gleaming along the edge 



4(5 A smugglek's life. 

above him ; he heard voices near liim, first hushed 
as if in fear of alarming any straggler ; then, by 
degrees louder, as the search became more and 
more hopeless. At last he perceived, that a con- 
sultation was being held upon the cliff above. The 
pistol of their companion had been found where it 
had fallen from his hand. Then the marks of 
their mortal struggle were traced upon the grass, 
were followed to the edge of the cliff; and the 
truth seemed at once comprehended, that one or 
both had perished there. Some immediately be- 
gan to descend to the shore, whilst others re- 
mained to indicate the exact spot where they 
should search. Then he heard the splashing of 
the men below, as they waded into the water to 
examine the place. What was passing through 
the mind of Adams, no pen can possibly relate. 
The mixture of remorse, of terror, of suspense 
almost maddened him ; and as he heard his own 
heart beating with terror, and fancied he could 
almost hear those of the anxious sailors above 
him ; as he clung to the cliff, over whose face a 
fellow-creature had just been dashed by him into 
eternity, as he crouched upon that ledge from 
which that horrible death-yell, which even now- 
rung in his terrified remembrance, had but a few 
minutes before sounded, and as his eyes strained 
into the dark mist below him, and presented ever 



A SMUGGLER S XIFK. 47 

the features of the murdered sailor, who had been 
sent by him at such a moment into the presence 
of his Judge ; all these thoughts so overwhelmed 
him, that several times he was upon the very point 
of giving himself up into the hands of the sailors 
near him. The instinct of self-preservation still 
upheld him. 

In this state he was when a shout from below 
announced that one body was found, where the 
waves were idly washing up and down that, which 
a few minutes before, had been so full of life, and 
so animated by passion. Another call told whose 
it was ; and all watch on the cliff being now con- 
sidered hopeless, the party above began to descend 
to aid the search of those below. Yet, still Adams 
dared not attempt his escape. He feared that he 
might fall in with some others of the band, who 
were watching near the village. He heard the 
sailors below retreat along the shore, which the 
tide was leaving dry ; and as the sound of their 
footsteps, heavy with the load they bore along the 
shingle beach died upon his ear, he found the per- 
feet solitude of his awful situation more intolerable 
than the neighbourhood of man, even though it 
were that of those who sought his life. Ages 
seemed to pass over him. For he waited till the 
first grey dawn of the morning was beginning to 
break, before he cautiously left his hiding place ; 



48 A smuggler's life. 

and almost frantic vvitli conflicting emotions, flew 
to his cottage. His first act was to see whether 
his lad was returned ; he was still absent, and 
though there would in ordinary circumstances, 
have been no peculiar reason for alarm in this, as 
he often spent the night with one of his compa- 
nions when they were late home ; yet in the pre- 
sent state of Adam's feelings, it filled his agitated 
mind with the most heart-rending anticipations. 
He was, however, too fully occupied for the pre- 
sent, in removing from his clothes all mark of the 
struggle in which he had been engaged, to be able 
to give himself up fully to these thoughts. When 
this task was done, he stepped softly into his 
wife's room. She was asleep, and close to her, 
as she always was in his absence, was her sur- 
viving daughter — she, whose dulled perceptions 
had rendered her happily, an unapt scholar, for 
the -lessons of evil which were passing around 
her ; and whose whole powers, both of mind and 
soul, seemed absorbed in a deep, and still almost 
infantine fondness for her mother, who loved her 
with as intense an affection in return. As he 
looked upon them, his wife started as in some 
dream of terror, while the quiet countenance of 
the daughter spoke of that calm to which her 
mother had been so long a stranger. Adams 
could bear it no longer, he muttered to himself, 



A smuggler's life. 49 

' A murderer shall not disturb them. A murderer 
— Ha ! that is a new name for me. Yes, a mur- 
derer ! a murderer !' he repeated to himself, as he 
threAV himself into the bed of his boy, having torn 
off his clothes. He lay long awake, groaning 
almost in an agony ; and then straining his eyes, 
as if to see the features of the victim of his sin. 
At last, his mind and body alike wearied out, he 
sunk into a feverish sleep, out of which from time 
to time he was startled by the fearful impression 
made even upon his dreams by what had passed 
that night. Again was he struggling for life — 
again he heard the blow upon the ledge of the 
rock — again the yell of agony — again he seemed 
to pause in breathless expectation, and again 
woke up, as he fancied he heard the body dash 
into the dark and troubled water. 

The morning found him in a high fever ; the 
effect of over wrought excitement of mind the 
night before. It was a sad waking for his wife ; 
as she watched by his bed looking at his glazed 
eye, and supplying continually the calls of his 
parching thirst. She was thus engaged when a 
neighbour called in, whose manner at once spoke 
her as the messenger of ill news. Evil tidings 
are soon spread ; and Mary was by this time al- 
most the only woman in the village who did not 
know that there had been a battle the night 
E 



50 ▲ smuggler's life. 

before between some smugglers and the coast 
guard ; that one of the last had been thrown from 
the cliif and killed, and that her son had been 
taken upon suspicion of being concerned in the 
affair, as he had been found, soon after it hap- 
pened, near the village at a very late hour of 
night. Mary almost fainted as the whole mes- 
sage of ill was made known to her. She hardly 
dared tell her husband, what had happened, in his 
present state ; and yet what to do towards pro- 
curing the liberation of their boy, without first 
consulting him, she could not possibly imagine. 
Her doubts however upon this point were soon 
resolved. Adams, who had heard the conversa- 
tion, called her to him, and soon learned every 
thing from her. She naturally attributed the al- 
most phrenzied feelings which seemed to disturb 
her husband, to anxiety about her son, and the 
weakening effects of illness. She little guessed 
what other thoughts were added to these in his 
meditations, or how bitterly she increased his 
misery by what she intended should comfort him. 

' They can never seriously suspect him of being 
the murderer. Why I would be the first to give 
him up if he were.' 

Her husband shuddered. 

* Do not be so cast down, George ; you know 
the lad is light and thoughtless : but for the crime 



A smuggler's life. 51 

of blood ! — I could never look at him again if 
there were a chance of his being so utterly de- 
graded.' 

By a strong effort Adams repressed his feel- 
ings enough to say that they must think of the 
best mode of clearing the lad from the charge. It 
was determined that Mary should set off at once 
and endeavour to see him ; should tell him of his 
father's illness, and suggest that this might fur- 
nish a plausible excuse for his being so late out 
the night before. 

Mary was unused to deceit, and she felt deeply 
the sin and misery of being thus made partaker 
of the guilt of her husband's evil life, through the 
force of her motherly affection. She stifled how- 
ever the voice of conscience, by saying to herself, 
that she was only delivering his father's message. 
It was with the greatest difficulty that she ob- 
tained permission to see her sori ; he was to be 
detained until the verdict of the coroner's inquest 
upon the body of the murdered sailor was made 
known. Those were anxious hours for Mary. 
She dared not leave her husband so long as would 
be necessary to stay for the sentence of the jury; 
she therefore begged of some of her neighbours 
to come from time to time with intelligence of 
their doings. She found Adams much worse at 
her return. She thought him at times delirious ; 



52 A SMXrCGLEn's LIFE. 

he seemed lost in thought, and muttered to him- 
self, ' Murderer' — ' murdered my son too.' Mary 
attributed it all to his deep anxiety for their only 
surviving boy ; the very idea of her husband's 
guilt never for one instant crossed her mind. 
With what eagerness did she come down stairs, 
as her innocent Hannah summoned her to receive 
the succeeding reports of the neighbours. ' Far- 
mer Stubbs, I'm sorry to say, neighbour, says he 
fears it will go hard with the boy ; but it wont be 
settled he thinks for these two hours yet.' 

For a few minutes Mary struggled in vain with 
her emotions ; a mother's heart was bursting 
within her. ' It was my mother's prophecy :' 
' Many afflictions,' she said, ' and many they have 
been ;' and then she sat for a moment almost stu- 
pified by grief. 

Hannah, who seemed perfectly at a loss to 
conceive what could be the meaning of the ex- 
citing scene around her, but whose affectionate 
heart was rung with the sight of her mother's 
grief, came and sat by her, and with a counte- 
nance expressive of affection mixed with alarm, 
began in her own way to endeavour to inquire 
into and alleviate her sorrows. As the mother 
looked upon her daughter, the soothing effects of 
her sympathy stole over her, and she burst for 
the first time, into a flood of tears. At this mo- 



A smuggler's life. 53 

ment she was called by Adams : he was again 
himself, and eagerly inquiring after his boy. She 
told him only that the verdict would not be given 
for an hour. 

'Mary, I think my head wanders sometimes. 
Have I said any thing which has distressed you ?' 
said he, in a tone of forced calmness. 

' Oh no ! you only seemed thinking about Ned,' 
she answered, fearing to increase his own agita- 
tion, by mentioning to him his exclamations : and 
thinking that he had been accusing himself of 
leading his son into the habits which had now ex- 
posed his life to danger. 

It was not long before other messengers arrived. 
< The coroner has been questioning him very 
closely, and he has told his story very plainly, 
that he was going to Tom Boxall's for something 
for his father, who was ill.' — So then he asked 
him why he did not tell the men so last night, 
when they took him on suspicion. — I was afraid 
he had nothing to say, but in a moment he looked 
up and said, ' Because I thought they would go 
with me to my father's house, to see if it was 
true, and I did not wish him to be disturbed by 
them, so ill as he was.' ' But would he not be 
more disturbed by your not coming back.' — ' No : 
because, if I could not get what he wanted, I wag 
to stay with Boxall till morning.' 
E2 



54 A smuggler's life. 

Mary's hopes of speedily seeing her son at 
liberty, were much increased; but her heart 
sickened when she heard how ready he seemed 
to be with what she knew were all false excuses ; 
and she thought of the early horror of a lie which 
her mother had instilled into her. She had not 
however long to muse ; her husband would be 
anxious to hear the news, and this time she was 
anxious to impart it. She was still sitting by the 
bed-side, when her son appeared. He was dis- 
charged, as there was no sort of evidence against 
him ; a verdict of ' Wilful murder against some 
persons unknown,' had been returned, and a large 
reward was talked of as likely to be offered, to 
lead to the discovery of the offender. 

Mary was much disappointed at the little effect 
which her son's discharge seemed to produce upon 
her husband. His increasing illness however, 
afforded a sufficient solution for it. His fits of 
delirium increased, and she wanted to send for the 
parish doctor ; he was, however, whenever a lucid 
interval returned, so violent in his refusal to see 
him, that she did not dare to call him in. Towards 
night, she sent for me ; I found him in a very high 
fever, and needing immediate medical advice. I 
waited till his reason returned : he seemed dread- 
fully alarmed at seeing me near him, and began 
directly to say, that he hoped he had said nothing 



A smuggler's life. 55 

improper, while his head was wandering. He 
still refused to see the doctor, but consented that 
I should report his situation, and be the medium 
of communication. The fever was violent and 
dangerous. I was continually with him, and soon 
suspected the whole truth from expressions which 
dropped from him in his delirium. 

One day as I sat by his bed side, he started 
horribly, and then casting his eyes to one side of 
the room, seemed to shrink back suddenly from it ; 
he muttered quickly between his almost closed 
teeth, * That is Ids yell — I know its sound — is he 
there ? How wet he is — No, you can't prove it — 
nobody saw me — the birds can't speak — there — 
there — there is no mark now — hark ! who was 
that V — He fell back again upon the pillow almost 
fainting, while the big drops stood thickly over his 
wasted forehead. Even poor Mary, I thought, 
began to suspect something from the eagerness 
with which he asked what he had said, when 
delirious, and the pains he took to account for his 
mind being so full of the dreadful end of the pre- 
ventive man. ' My mind runs so upon it, sir, that 
I may speak queerly about it when my senses are 
wandering.' 

It was in vain that I tried to soothe and quiet 
his perturbed spirit. It was evident that some 
heavy load pressed upon his mind ; that he could 



56 A smuoglkk's life. 

not bring himself to confession, and yet could know- 
no peace without it. Many were the sorrowful 
visits that I paid him, many the prayers which I 
offered up for him, and with him. Over and 
over again did I point him " to that blood which 
cleanseth from all iniquity;" I strove to heal 
the wounded conscience, by telling him that 
there was forgiveness for him, whatever was his 
sin, if he did but truly turn to the Lord Jesus for 
pardon* At last the crisis of his complaint was 
passed, and he began slowly to rally. When he 
was out of all immediate danger, and I no longer 
feared any evil effects from the attempt, I resolv- 
ed to probe the wound more deeply than I had 
yet done, hoping by this means to lead him to 
confession ; and then, through God's grace, to 
penitence of heart. By little and liltle, I showed 
him how much I knew, and how much more I 
suspected ; at first it seemed only to terrify him, 
with the fear of conviction ; he was, however, at 
last re-assured by my telling that I thought it was 
not my duty, as watching over his spiritual 
interest, to impart to any one the confession which 
he might make to me of past misdeeds, whatever 
might have been their enormity : that I was there 
as the messenger of God ; not to bring him before 
an earthly bar of justice ; but to lead him to hum- 
ble himself truly before his God, for his great sins 
against him. 



A smuggler's life. 57 

The struggle was hard before he could bring 
himself to confess the whole : but at last the sac- 
rifice was made. He appeared to be truly peni- 
tent, and vowed most earnestly (if he were yet 
spared) the entire abandonment of his evil mode 
of life. His health was in time pretty well re- 
stored, but the impression made on his mind evi- 
dently lasted. I saw him repeatedly, and trusted 
that the ground- work of a real change of charac- 
ter was laid. 

Early on the morning of the day after he had 
first returned to his fishing, he came to me in a 
state of alarming agitation. 

* What has happened V was my immediate ques- 
tion — I will put down, as nearly as possible in his 
own words, the account of his feelings, which he 
gave me in the course of our conversation. 

' You know, sir, what a horror 1 felt at going 
down to that shore again ; how long I put it off, 
until I was afraid it might raise suspicions against 
me, if I did not go back to my old business, in the 
fishing way 5 when I got there you may be sure 
that no other thoughts were in my mind, but of 
that dreadful night. How could it be otherwise ? 
For there was the rock, and the shelf, and the 
steep cliff; and oh ! it makes my heart ache, to 
think of it ; the very moaning of the waves 
seemed to speak to me. Well, sir, I went home 



58 A smuggler's LIFE. 

at night, still plodding over these things ; an^ they 
were the last thoughts in my mind, when I fell 
asleep ; and then was the worst of all. I thought 
that I was walking under that cliff, and saw a 
cave there which I had never noticed before ; I 
turned into it, to see what sort of place it was ; I 
walked on, and on, till I seemed to pass under a 
poi-ch,and the cav^e, which had been dark before, 
seemed lighted with a heavy red light, like the glare 
of a dull fire. Just as I was about to turn and try 
to find my way out, I saw a man walking up to me : 
I could not help stopping, though I did not know 
why I did. He came close up to me, and then I 
saw that it was him, and he was dressed just as 
he was that night — I trembled all over, and not a 
word could I utter ; I thought he looked me full 
in the face with a horrid sort of laugh ; and said 
— ' So you are come here too.' — I was ready to 
drop, but I said, ' Hare ! where am I then V — ' In 
Hell,' he answered — ' In Hell !' I thought I said, 
' why, there are no flames here : this cannot be 
Hell?' — 'Are there no flames?' said he. And 
with that, it seemed as if my eyes were suddenly 
opened, and what had appeared to me before to 
be nothing but a dull red light, now grew into a 
thousand separate and distinct forms of fire, play- 
ing and curling, and winding round, and through 
the miserable man to whom I was speaking. A 



A smuggler's life. 59 

confused sound too, as of millions of beings groan- 
ing in suppressed agony, then broke on my ear, 
from the further end of the cavern, as the flames 
seemed in that quarter to burst forth into greater 
distinctness ; I thought that I had just strength 
enough to turn from the horrible sight, when he 
seized my left arm, and said, just in that voice 
which has rung so often in my ears, — ' And in six 
months I shall have you here.' I woke up with 
that, 9.nd found the arm which he had seized all 
numbed with pain. 

This was the substance of his account ; and 
whilst I tried to turn even this to a good effect, in 
deepening his feelings of repentance, and quick- 
ening his desire of true pardon, I told him, of 
course, that such a dream proved nothing, but 
that his mind was full of this one subject, and that 
the thoughts which had been harassing him whilst 
awake, returned again even in the hours of 
sleep. 

It was many days before the impression of his 
dream at all wore off, and before he could again 
bring himself to resume his business on the coast. 
The state of the weather giving him an unexpect- 
ed reason for intermitting his attempts at fishing. 
He appeared certainly improved by his sufferings ; 
he was much more attentive to the duties of reli- 
gion, was constant at church, abjured the ale- 



60 A smuggler's death. 

house, and steadily refused to join in his former con- 
traband adventures; but still there was something 
about him, which, even when I ti'ied most earnest- 
ly to hope concerning him, whispered fear instead. 
Remorse and shame, were constant inmates in 
his mind, but I could not trace the workings of 
that " godly sorrow which worketh repentance 
not to be repented of." He did not seem soften- 
ed by his misery ; above all, he did not lay hold 
of the hope set before sinners in the Saviour's 
cross, with that confiding eager hold which marks 
the penitent, whose heart has been truly touched 
by the Spirit of the Lord. 



CHAP. VI. 

A smuggler's death. 

It would be a painful task to i-ecord all the 
melancholy steps, which led to the fulfilment of 
my fears concerning Adams. It was long, and 
after many relapses and returns, before the salu- 
tary impression of his sufferings went quite away. 
I had warned and entreated him, as long as he 
would bear my visits ; but latterly be had always 
escaped them if possible ; and on one or two occa- 
sions, when he could not do this, had repulsed 



A smuggler's death. 61 

them even with rudeness. All therefore that I 
could do now, was to pray for the unhappy man. 
One good effect, however, of his illness still re. 
mained ; neither he nor his son had ever return- 
ed to the life of smugglers. But even this one last 
step was at last taken. They consented to join a 
party engaged in an extensiv-e attempt of this un- 
lawful nature. 

Mary had no idea of their intention, and when 
the evening closed in and they did not return, she 
sighed bitterly, thinking that they were gone from 
their boats, as had been too frequently the case of 
late, to the destructive alehouse. The hours 
passed on; it was late, and she and Hannah went 
to bed, leaving the key of the cottage, as usual, 
where her husband could reach it. 

Mary could not sleep ; she knew not why, but 
her thoughts were running upon the scenes of her 
childhood. Words and things which had been 
long forgotten, were wakening upon her recol. 
lection. Her memory seemed, as it often does, 
to open fitfully, stores which had been sealed up 
for years in forgetfulness. 

Above all, she continually reverted to words 
which had from time to time dropped from her 
sainted mother — upon her prediction of sorrow to 
her beloved daughter, upon her earnest entreaty 
to her to strive, if it did come, to let it lead her 
F 



62 A smuggler's death. 

to him who alone can comfort the aching heatt. 
She had at last fallen into a sort of doze, in which 
she Avas carrying on the thoughts which had last 
occupied her mind. 

From this she was suddenly roused, by a loud 
clap of thunder. She thought with trembling 
anxiety, of her husband and son ; It must be very 
late : why are ^they not returned ? She rose 
quietly from her bed, where her beloved Hannah 
slept undisturbed by the storm, and going to the 
window, gently opened the lattice. It had been a 
most sultry day, and the air was still heated, but 
a violent storm was evidently rising. Every now 
and then a tremendous peal of thunder echoed 
along the sky ; and when a black cloud which 
lowered over the sea, poured forth from time to 
time a flash of lightning, she could sec tier after 
tier of clouds heaped one upon another, and torn, 
apparently, by some violent elemental war; as 
their heavy masses hurried round and round, and 
from time to time poured out volumes of flame. 
The sea too, she heard, was rising ; as the heavy 
ground-swell, lashing the whole coast, seemed, in 
the still pauses which yet held the heavens silent, 
to vie with the pealing thunder, which continually 
broke in upon its roar. As she listened and 
watched the coming storm, she heard, as she 
thought, a signal gun from the coast. She strained 



A smugglek's death. 63 

her ears to catch the sound ; yes, it was another, 
she was sure of it, in that pause of the thunder. 
In a moment the most horrible apprehensions 
filled her mind. Had her husband been inveigled 
into joining again with the smugglers? was he 
taken ? perhaps killed in an affray with the guard ; 
was he on that roaring element ? and were those 
guns designed by some who had observed their 
danger, to call others together, to render to them 
what must be unavailing aid? She could not 
bear the horrible uncertainty : so closing the lat- 
tice gently, she hastily dressed herself, meaning 
to hurry down to the beach, and satisfy her 
anxious fears. Before she went, she once more 
bent over her daughter : she was sleeping per- 
fectly undisturbed. This confusion of the elements, 
like many a moral storm before, seemed passing 
altogether unnoticed over her placid composure. 
Mary hurried down to the station. The sea 
was running mountains high, near the shore : it 
was that tremendous ground, swell which rises on 
this coast, sometimes within a few minutes, and 
exceeds in violence, the fiercest storms ; seeming 
as if it would tear up before it, the very founda- 
tions of the cliff. There was no one at the sta- 
tion. But along the shore, on a low ledge of the 
rock, just out of the reach of the breakers, at the 
mouth of a cave, below the high chalk precipice, 



64 A smuggler's death. 

she thought she saw lights gleaming. It was just 
where the preventive man had been thrown down 
some years before ; and, under other circumstan- 
ces, Mary would have dreaded, at such an hour, 
to approach the spot. But for what will not the 
love of a mother and a wife nerve the heart of a 
woman ? She hurried towards the lights ; and as 
she drew near, -she could distinguish the figures 
of men moving slowly, as if intent upon their em- 
ployment. As she drew still nearer, she saw two 
other figures, apparently laid down at the mouth 
of the cave. She moved on, almost frantic with 
anxiety. She was amongst them in a few mo- 
ments more, and then she saw not the storm — she 
heard not the waves — she had fallen in a swoon 
upon the lifeless body of her husband. 

In pushing to land, upon the first appearance 
of the storm, the smugglers' boat had been 
swamped, and all on board had perished ; two 
only of the bodies had been recovered, that of 
Adams and another man. Young Adams and 
six others were altogether missing. 

Mary was carried immediately to the station- 
house, perfectly insensible ; her swoons followed 
each other with such frightful rapidity, that fears 
were entertained for her life ; at length however 
she became more tranquil. 

In the grey of the morning I was already with 



A smuggler's death. 65 

her, and endeavoured to prevail upon her to re- 
turn to her own cottage. She insisted upon once 
more seeing her husband's body. Having in vain 
resisted her desires, I accompanied her into the 
room where it was laid. I was more alarmed by 
her composure now, than by her agony before. 
She looked steadfastly on the face of the dead for 
a minute or two, and then, drawing in her breath 
between her teeth, muttered in a hard and sullen 
tone, ' My mother's curse /' Then, without say- 
ing another word, or dropping a tear, she accom- 
panied me out of the room. 

She assented to my desire that she should go 
immediately to her cottage. She walked silently 
by my side, neither responding to the few words 
of comfort which I endeavoured to suggest to her, 
nor uttering any passionate expressions of grief. 
' What !' said I to myself, ' cannot even this melt 
her? Then her heart is hardened indeed!' I 
walked mournfully to the cottage. The cheerful 
aspect of reviving nature jarred upon my depress- 
ed spirits. 

The storm had spent its fury, falling in a de- 
luge of rain, the drops of which hung from every 
spray and leaf, and from every stalk of the long 
grass, and shone gaily like a thousand brilliants 
in the bright rays of the sun, which was just 
arisen above the horizon. I breathed a secret 
F2 



66 A MOTHER 8 SORROWS. 

prayer to the Most High as I walked along ; en. 
treating him to dispel, in like manner, the dark- 
ness which had so long hung over the soul of 
Mary ; and even after this last fearful storm of 
agony to let the Sun of Righteousness arise upon 
her, with healing in his wings. 



CHAP. VII. 

A mother's sorrows. 

■ When we reached the cottage, we found'a new 
source of distress. The violence of the storm 
had at last awakened Hannah. She had sought 
instantly for her mother, and not finding her, had 
been overcome with alarm at so unusual an event. 
The first notion of the terrified girl was to go and 
seek her in a little wood near the cottage, which 
formed their accustomed walk, but having none 
to take care of her, and being, through the dis- 
turbance of her mind, far more incapable than 
usual, of providing for herself, she had gone out 
with no more protection than that of her ordinary 
cottage dress. She had not got far from home, 
when the storm overtook her in its fullest vio- 
lence, and this adding to her confusion, she lost 
her way, and had remained till morning, exposed 



A mother's sorrow. 67 

to the warfare of the elements, and overpowered 
too with terror and distress. She had been found 
in this state by a neighbour going to his work at 
break of day, who had just brought her in as we 
entered the cottage. The sullen and frozen si- 
lence which Mary had hitherto maintained, made 
me tremble for her reason, but her conduct now 
completely dispelled this alarm. The poor terri- 
fied girl flew at once to her mother, and clung to 
her in a sort of childish agony. Mary soothed, 
fondled, and soon succeeded in calming her ; she 
took her to her room, and putting her to bed, 
prepared herself to join her innocent child, with 
the hope of perfectly calming her mind, and re- 
storing warmth to her exhausted body. 

It was not many hours before I again visited 
Mary. I found her in precisely the same state ; 
calm, composed, with every feeling shut up, as if 
she was hardened into stone, by the visitations of 
her Father's hand. Nothing roused her from 
this state, not even the recovery of her son's 
body, — nor the committing it and her dead hus- 
band to one common grave. To her neighbours 
she scarcely ever spoke, and though always civil 
and attentive to myself, yet it was that cold atten- 
tion, which came as near as possible to repelling 
all the intercourse into which I endeavoured to lead 
her. To Hannah only, her heart seemed to open. 



68 A mother's 80BR0WS. 

Every affection of her soul was now centered 
upon her ; she was her only object ; for her she 
hved. If she woke, or rose, or eat, or slept, it 
was to lead Hannah to do the same. There ap- 
peared to be some secret and undefineable sympa- 
thy between them ; for though, to every one else, 
Hannah's dullness approached almost to idiotcy, 
yet with her mother, she appeared even quick in 
perception, and overflowing with enjoyment. Her 
mind had perfectly recovered its ordinary calm ; 
but the effects of that awful night might be traced 
in her bodily health. It had not escaped the 
watchful care of her mother, that Hannah had 
from that time never ceased to cough : and other 
eyes could trace a paleness in Hannah's cheek, 
and a hollowness in her eye, to which they had 
heretofore been strangers. 

These symptoms of decay her mother had not 
S3en ; she hung over her tender flower with such 
an incessant gaze, that she marked not the gra- 
dual change which was passing upon it. It was 
not however very long before more threatening 
symptoms made their appearance, and forced 
themselves upon her mother's notice. 

Hannah had always been a delicate child, and 
the infirmity of her mind had secluded her from 
the exposure to sun and air, common with those 
in her station of life. There was therefore a de- 



A mother's sorrows. 69 

licacy in her complexion which is very unusual 
in a peasant's child. This made the ashy pale, 
ness which no .v overspread her features the more 
observable, and threw also into stronger contrast 
with it, the deep flush which mantled over them 
every evening. Her sleep too, which had always 
been as quiet and serene as that of an infant, be. 
gan to be disturbed. It seemed as if the decay 
of her body was acting, in an extraordinary man- 
ner, upon her mind ; it was beginning to obtain 
that clearness to wlich it had been so long a 
stranger, but with which it was so soon to be per- 
fectly endued in the full light of its Creator's pre. 
sence. Others, indeed, did not notice this, because 
her constitutional shyness and timidity seemed 
rather to increase. It was, perhaps, the first 
opening to the light, of the eye long accustomed 
to darkness, which gave every object around Ucr 
so much power to injure its exquisite sensibility. 
Still her mother could not but trace in her a 
clearer exercise of reason than any she had be. 
fore observed. With this conviction, there came 
to the mind of Mary a new source of anxiety ; 
she could not hide from herself that she was not 
likely to see her daughter's feeble strength strug- 
gle long with the fatal attacks of consumption. 
The leaflets of her beloved plant had begun to 
droop, a slight shade had already passed upon its 



70 A mother's sorrows. 

bright and beautiful flower, and she knew not 
how speedily the , principle of vitality might be 
overpowered. The flame of life fluttered, she 
saw, with a fitful existence, and a single breath 
might extinguish its lambent light, ' And what,' 
said she, ' shall be her condition afterwards V 

She was lost in these anxious thoughts one 
night, when sitting by the bed of her child, who 
had at last, after much restlessness, sunk into a 
quiet sleep, while the heavy drops, which attested 
the deadly struggle which was going on within, 
stood thickly upon her pale and almost transpa- 
rent forehead. 

Mary sunk upon her knees, and for the first 
time for years, poured forth an earnest supplica- 
tion to the God of Mercy. ' Grant, Lord, that 
this my beloved child, ma}"^ be made fit for thy 
holy presence. May she be indeed washed in his 
blood, who died for her. May her faith in him 
be true, according to the powers which thou hast 
given her. May she join that saint of thine who 
is gone before : and oh ! may her mother not be 
wanting at that hour. Though she has wandered 
from thee so long, yet in mercy, Lord, restore 
her, and help her to lead her child in the right 
way.' 

It was her first earnest prayer, for though she 
had never given up the form of daily supplication. 



.mti 



A, mother's sorrows. 71 

yet she had long been a stranger to its reality. 
A thick cloud had been drawn between her and 
heaven ; her hardened conscience, and her sins 
brooded over with remorse, instead of being 
viewed with humility and contrition, made her 
heaven over her brass, and the earth that was 
under her, iron. Communion with God was im- 
possible ; and every stroke which he had given 
in love, every affliction which had been sent to 
turn her, as they had failed of their intended pur- 
pose, had made her heart harder. But now the 
rock was smitten. The flow of holy affections 
rushed forth. That night was one much to be 
remembered by Mary. The first burst of prayer 
had been like the few large drops before the 
shower. Th^ angels had rejoiced over the re- 
turning sinner ; she soon poured out her whole 
heart before her Father in the deepest penitence 
and most earnest supplication. 

A message from Mary brought me to her cot- 
tage in the morning ; she could scarcely speak 
to me without tears ; I soon discovered and blessed 
God sincerely for the change which had taken 
place in her ; it v/as like the bursting forth of 
suppressed existence after an arctic winter : it 
seemed almost too sudden to be true ; the fresh 
and green verdure had so instantly followed upon 
the bleakest desolation. Yet true and real it 



72 A mother's SORKOWa. 

was, for the Spirit of the Lord had breathed over 
the Midste places of her soul, and the wilderness 
had begun to blossom as the garden of the Lord. 
She was most deeply humbled ; ' Oh !' she would 
say, ' how many years has my God borne with 
me ! he has sought fruit, not for three, but for 
thirty years, and still has he found me a cumberer 
of the ground ; and even yet will he receive me ; 
even yet are the tender mercies of my Saviour 
sufficient for me ; even yet can his .blood cleanse 
me. How wonderful have been his dealings with 
me ; every correct ioii. seemed wasted upon ine, 
rpany as they have /Hfen ; biut,iad'lv,«essad,be his 
name, I have not been afflicted • in^^ixf ;: for by 
this last stroke have I beenr tiMtdTO him. It 
was a most instructive lesson fo^jj^tch all the 
early promise of Mary's chara^er even now ful- 
filled. It was before like some glorious prospect 
which was mar3;ed and. Iclouded by a close and 
universal naj^^^^fftUw Me cloud was melting 
away, and every feature, of the landscape arraying 
itself in its true beauty and proportion. Her 
great anxiety was for the soul of her daughter. 
It was quite evident that she would not long be an 
inhabitant of this world. Her insidious complaint 
had made dreadful ravages in the frail tabernacle 
of the body ; but still it seemed proportionably 
to clear and increase the powers of the immortal 



A mother's sohrows. 73 

spirit. Nor was it a mere intellectual impj^ove- 
ment. Mary's prayers and labours for her child, 
seemed indeed to be abundantly answered. She 
had taught her, when young, to accompany her 
night and morning in a short form of prayer, and 
increasing years had not led to the abandonment 
of the custom. Hannah had still been used, with 
infantine simplicity and with scarcely more than 
infantine comprehension, to bow her knees to- 
gether with her mother and repeat with her the 
words of supplication. But now she laboured 
hard to lead her on beyond the mere form. She 
would speak to her often of heaven, and of the 
name of Jesus ; and the innocent mind of her 
daughter seemed readily to receive her teaching. 
Scriptural converse was the key that unlocked 
the secret treasures of her soul. It was like the 
power of music over an irrational creature ; as its 
harmony was breathed over her soul, it seemed to 
us as if it reached her by some more immediate 
channel than her darkened understanding ; it was 
as if it had some secret affinity with something 
within her ; but soon it purified her powers of 
comprehension. Though she knew little else, she 
had now learned to know the love of her Re- 
deemer ; and with what evident earnestness did 
she unite in the prayers which we offered up, day 
after day, to the throne of grace. I could hardly 
G 



74 A mother's sorroms. 

help fancying oftentimes that the blessed angels 
came and communed with her, who had known 
so little of earthly converse — she seemed to learn 
so much more than we could teach her. Her de- 
cline was very gradual, and her end was peace. 
The arms of her mother were round her when 
Hannah breathed her last ; and the delighted spirit 
which had longieen imprisoned in the flesh, and 
which had been so bound and pent in that it had 
known the weight of more than the ordinary bur- 
den of that depressing union, was set free from 
the alliance of earthly infirmity, and, with new 
powers and dilated energies, rejoiced in the pre- 
sence of her God. 

Bitter was the pang to Mary when she resigned 
her last earthly treasure ; but she had now learn- 
ed not to " sorrow as one without hope :" — tears, 
indeed, dropped fast from her eyes as she turned 
away from the grave, a lonely sojourner upon the 
face of this populous earth. But she had learned 
to bless the hand which had afflicted her. Often 
did she testify that indeed of very faithfulness her 
Lord had caused her to be troubled. There was 
not, she would say, — there Avas not one stroke 
too much, — for but for that last, all the rest would 
have been wasted on me. 

Her few remaining years saw her ripen rapidly 
for that crown of glory which now she doubtless 



A mother's sorrows. 75 

wears. Her spirit was deeply chastened by af- 
fliction ; it was a school in which she had been 
long a learner ; and fully could she sympathize 
with every labouring heart. Her state of mind 
was like a second spring, so sweetly did every 
Christian grace blossom and bear fruit : — and as 
she drew nearer to the grave, joy itself was not 
wanting to her : it seemed as if the refreshing 
gales of heavenly consolation were vouchsafed to 
animate and purify her soul, even before she had 
anchored on the everlasting shore. Like the 
fainting seaman who tastes upon the perfumed 
breeze the neighbourhood of the spicy shores, and 
is animated to renewed labours, she was hereby 
strengthened to hold on her course with joy, wait- 
ing with composed expectation for the glad time of 
her departure hence. It came at last, — it found 
her watching, — it crowned her labours with ever- 
lasting joy ; it fulfilled the brightest promise of 
■ her early years ; and, though preceded by a long, 
and painful, and weary journey, it finally answered 
all her sainted mother's prayers, in the everlasting 
rest to which it conducted her. 



THE FUNERAL. 



G2 



Farewell, dear flow'rs ! sweetly your time ye spent, 
Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament; 

And, after death, for cure. 
I follow straight without complaint or grief; 
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if 

It be as short as yours. 

Geohge Hehbeht. 



THE FUNERAL. 



I HAD scarcely returned from visiting some sick 
people, when I was told that the overseer wanted 
to speak with me. ' Let him come in.' 

Mr. Johnson soon acquainted me with his busi- 
ness : < As John Snow was walking along the 
shore this afternoon, near the black rocks, he saw 
something floating in the water, which he found to 
be the body of a man. With the help of some 
others, he removed it from the water, and it is 
now laid in the fisherman's hut. We have sent 
over to the Coroner, and the inquest is to be held 
to-morrow evening.' 

By six o'clock the next evening I was at the 
fisherman's hut : the Coroner was there, and the 
jury were just going to view the body. I did not 
go in with them, for there is something repugnant 
to my feelings, unless duty requires it, in thus ex- 
amining in the presence of others, the tabernacle 
which the immortal spirit has forsaken. There is 
a sacredness^ about such remains, which breathes 
an awful stillness over the soul ; and the observa- 
tions of others, even when they are not trifling iw 



80 THE FUNEHAL. 

themselves, seem discordantly to jar upon the 
mind at such a season. When the jury had finish, 
ed their examination of the body, and were gone 
into the next room to determine upon their verdict, 
I went alone into the chamber of the dead. It 
was of the meanest order, the cottage was in its 
best state but miserable ; and this was its worst 
part. The flooj was unevenly paved with rough 
stones ; the ceiling was low, and deeply coloured 
with the efforts of the smoke of an occasional fire 
to curl its reluctant way up a miserable chimney ; 
a torn net, a small keg or two, and a few wicker 
■fish-baskets, with a broken chair, discarded from 
the better parts of the cottage, formed its whole 
furniture. A doubtful light struggled through the 
clouded and patched window, and streamed with 
a melancholy ray full upon the board upon which 
lay the body of the drowned man. As I ap- 
proached it, a shudder came across me : oh ! it is 
fearful work that death makes with the human 
body. I had seen death before, in the counte- 
nance of many. I had seen it in the face of the 
young and the beautiful, who had fallen sweetly 
asleep in Jesus. Miad seen it where middle age 
and maturity had been worn down by sickness, 
and where it seemed as if a quiet slumber had 
lulled for a while the sense of pain into forgetful! 
ness. I had seen it, too, when strong disease had 



THE rUNERAL. 81 

suddenly laid low a frame of iron, and when the 
struggles had been hard, so that every feature bore 
testimony to the fearful conflict, when the glazed 
eye would hardly remain closed, and the teeth 
were set firmly together as in the last convulsive 
agony. But I had never seen any instance in 
which death and decay had so marred the human 
countenance. The body had evidently lain long 
in the water. It had sunk for' a while to those 
silent depths which the storm that hurries over 
the surface of the wave scarcely disturbs. The 
face had rested upon the gravelly bottom, and here 
and there were the deep and purple impressions 
of the surface of the stones. There was still upon 
the features the look of the last struggle, that 
agony of impression which is printed upon the 
countenance by a sudden and violent death. 

As I looked at the dead man, imagination be- 
came busy in filling up the detail of that sorrowful 
picture, on the outlines of which my eye rested. 
The feehng of the man himself as he vainly 
struggled for life, cut off" in a moment in the full 
height of youth and strength ; the first turbulent 
alarm, the awful despairing realization of his 
fears, the glance of his agitated mind, backward 
through fife, and forward into Eternity ; the pro- 
bable agony of the friends from whom he was thus 
snatched ; a widowed mother perhaps, or a help. 



82 THE FUNERAL. 

less wife, beings to whom he was every thing ; 
above all, anxious uncertain thoughts conceming 
the state of that immortal soul which had been 
thus hurried into the presence of its Judge ; all 
these things were passing rapidly through my 
mind, when I was called away from my musings, 
to receive the Coroner's report. ' A man unknown 
found drowned ;' with a warrant for liis interment 
in a place of Christian burial, was the Coroner's 
return. 

The next afternoon was fixed for the time ; .the 
preparations for the funeral were committed to the 
overseer ; and as it was thought that a clue to the 
name and abode of the deceased had been discov- 
ered, a message Avas dispatched to his supposed 
friends to let them know where the body had been 
found. At seven o'clock on the evening of the 
next day, a cart bearing the coffin of the unhappy 
man, appeared at the entrance of the church-yard. 
It was of the plainest construction, and there was 
on it no memorial of the name or age of him whose 
body it contained. It was followed by two persons, 
the overseer of the parish, and another man de- 
cently dressed, whose face was buried in a handker- 
chief: he appeared to be of rather advanced years, 
and of what had been a strong and manly frame. 
The deep heavings of his side, together with an 
occasional half-stifled sob, seem to bespeak the 



THE FUNERAL. 83 

agony of deep affliction with which he was wrest- 
ling. ' He is the father of the poor young man,' 
was the overseer's answer to the whispered ques- 
tion ; ' he has identified him by his watch and hnen.' 
I endeavoured to speak a word of encouragement 
to him, but the speechless agony of his grief shewed 
that any interruption to the first full flow of sor. 
row, would but chafe and aggravate its course. 
We moved towards the place prepared for his in- 
terment ; it was dug in a remote quarter of the 
church-yard, where a few graves appeared, un- 
marked by any stone ; the spot where, in a parish 
near an mhospitable coast, several bodies had been, 
from time to time, interred, whose sole earthly 
memorial was the mournful entry in the register, 
' Man unknown, found drowned.' 

It was a painful and awful scene. The shadows 
of evening were closing round us ; the wind was 
rising in fitful and stormy violence, — a few drops of 
rain fell from time to time as the diflerent clouds 
hurried over us ; and the roar of the increasing 
waves at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, 
came upon the rising and falling breeze as they 
dashed against the rocky shore. Our scanty 
band, strangers all but one, to the hopes, and fears, 
and memory of tlie deceased, — and that one strug- 
gling with an unexpected and over-raastei'ing sor- 
row, stood' for a moment and leant over the open 



84 THE FUNERAL. 

grave ; then the solemn words of the funeral ser- 
vice blended with the scene — those words of Chris- 
tian hope and charity, which leave to the heart- 
searching God the rightof judging of the secrets of 
the soul, and receive again into the keeping of the 
church that departed member whom she had sent 
forth from the font of Christian baptism, sprinkled 
with holy dew, apd signed with the cross of her 
Redeemer. She receives him again into her 
charge, hoping earnestly that when his Master 
and her own shall come to judgment, he may be 
found to have " led the rest of his life according to 
that beginning." 

The service closed — and as I turned from the 
grave I beckoned to the weeping father to speak 
with me. 

' What was your son's age V 

' He was just thirty. Sir ! he was my only child.' 

' Had you seen much of him of late V 

' Yes, Sir ; I have seen him often.' 

' Have you known the state of his mind ? Did it 
give you reason to hope that he was prepared for 
such an end ?' 

■ A heavy sigh was at first my only answer ; and 
I was grieved to have asked a question to which 
he could not reply without pain. ' Sir,' he said in 
a moment, in a deep and almost whispered voice, 
' Sir, he was my child. Oh, Sir ! I never knew 



THE FUNERAL. 85; 

what sorrow was before. I have left his mother 
heart-broken at home, and I am hurrying back to 
her :' and then, as though exhausted by the effort, 
his voice sunk into a sob in which liis very soul 
seemed breathed out. 

A few, a very few words I addressed to him, in 
parting from him. In these I endeavoured to fix 
upon his mind the impression of seriousness which 
the scene and the service could hardly fail of hav- 
ing made upon him : I tried too to turn inward his 
hovering and excited feelings ; to lead him more 
earnestly than ever to seek for himself a personal 
interest in that Saviour who is to all who believe 
in him " the resurrection and the life." 

It was, I think, five years afterwards that I was 

passing through the village of H . It was 

the place where the parents of poor William Brown 
had lived. As I walked through the village doubt- 
ful where to begin my inquiries, I saw an elderly 
woman at the door of one of the neatest cottages : 
its latticed window was almost hidden beneath the 
roses and honey-suckle which grew in emulous lux- 
uriance over it. The little plot of garden-ground 
before it was studded with every common flower 
of beauty and sweetness. There was something 
in the countenance of the woman which excited my 
immediate interest ; she was plainly, almost coarse- 
ly dressed, but every thing was perfectly clean 
H 



Ob THE FUNERAL, 

and tidy in her appearance, and her face, which 
seemed as if it had been handsome in youth, wore, 
I thought, the impress of sorrow, and yet of con- 
tent ; her dress bespoke her to be a widow, and 
her whole appearance assured me at the first 
glance that she was one that was ' a widow indeed 
and desolate.' I got into conversation with her, 
and soon opened niy inquiries. 

*Do you know any thing of the family of a 
young man named Brown, who was lost off the 
coast of about five years ago V 

' Indeed I do, Sir ;' she said with a sigh. 

' Was he a relation of yours V 

* No, Sir, he was not ; though perhaps he might 
have been — poor William.' 

She ceased speaking, as if painful recollections 
had been awakened in her mind by the mention 
of his name. I perceived her difiiculty, and turn- 
ed the conversation to other matters. We went 
into the cottage together, and as I saw her wipe 
away a tear which had burst from her eye, I spoke 
to her of the sorrow which had evidently been her 
lot. ■ I spoke to her of that gracious Father who 
chasteneth those in whom he delighteth. Her's was 
no unmeaning assent to truths repeated to the cal- 
lous and reluctant ear ; they spoke evidently to her 
heart ; for raising her head she said : — ' Oh, Sir ; 
indeed I can bless God for my sufferings : it has 



THE FUNERAi. 87 

been good for me that I have been afflicted, for it 
has, I hope, brought me to love and serve my 
heavenly Father.' 

It seemed as if she no longer felt towards me as 
a stranger, for of her own accord she began : — 

' You asked me about William Brown, Sir ; it 
is a sad story — but God has been gracious in all 
that has come upon me. I can speak of it, Sir, to 
you, for you will feel with me in it. That little 
cottage which you see over the way was where his 
parents always lived : they had some little money 
of their own which they had saved in early life, 
and with that they kept a cow, and with a little 
work done once or twice a-week by Brown, and a 
little washing and mending by his wife, they lived 
very comfortably. They were decent, quiet peo- 
pie, and every body respected them : they had but 
one child, William Brown, about whom you ask- 
ed. He was a quick, clever lad ; he was long at 
the Sunday-school, and answered better in church, 
and got more rewards, than any other boy in the 
parish. But it never appeared as if his heart was 
in the least affected by what he learned, and he 
was soon known as the smartest lad in the village, 
and the fondest of a dance or a fair. His parents 
were too proud of him to check him in his inclina- 
tions, and whilst all said, how good-looking and 
good-natured WiUiam was ; they were too well 



013 THE FTNERAI,. 

pleased with such commendations, to be anxious 
to train him up in the way he shoulJ go, by fixing 
him to regular labour. 

' My poor Jane, Sir, was about a year younger 
than William ; they had been much together when 
they were children, and they became fond of each 
other as they grew up, till it was commonly said 
in the village, tha^ we should live to see them in a 
cottage of their own. But about five years ago, 
my dear girl was taken with the fever, and during 
her lo ig illness, she was often visited by the min- 
ister. She had alwa3'S been a favourite of his in 
the Sunday-school. Many an anxious hour had I 
passed in thinking about her, and many a night> 
when I had seen her to bed, had I sat up praying 
for her ; for though she learned readily all that 
she was set, and was as kind-tempered and as good 
a daughter as ever bless?d a mother's love, yet I 
could not see that she felt as I wished, about feai*. 
ing God. I was always afraid that her acquain- 
tance with poor William kept her from thinking of 
these things — for he was a sad careless lad. But 
now, the seed that had been so long without any 
signs of life began to spring up, grow, and promise 
an abundant harvest. When the fever left her, 
and she got strong again, I sadly feared that her 
serious thoughts w ould be all forgoLten ; but I was 
mistaken, thank God for it. She was altogether 



THE FUNEKAI.. 89 

diiferent from what she had been before, not but 
what after awhile her spirits were as good as they 
had ever been ; but she loved prayer, and she 
loved her Bible, and Sunday was a delight to her 
now, and she was always thinking how she could 
do others good. Before, if there was a party to 
be made for any pleasure, Jane was sure to be one, 
and she would think about it for days before ; but 
now she seemed to have no liking for such things. 
She would indeed do all that she could to please 
her companions ; but what she now liked better 
than any thing else, was, to help those who were 
in any trouble, or show any act of kindness that 
was within her power to a sick or infirm neigh- 
bour. I could see plainly she was still very fond 
of Wilham. One Sunday afternoon, he came and 
asked her to walk with him : she took her bonnet 
and went, and they were out together for some 
time. I saw, when they came back, by Jane's 
countenance, that they had been talking upon 
some serious subject. She soon told me, that 
William had asked her to become his wife. He 
had spoken to his father and mother, and they 
promised to set him up in a little cottage, where, 
with his own work, they could do very well. She 
told him directly, how all her ways of thinking 
were changed since she was ill, and that she could 
never marry any. one,'^if she did not believe that 
H2 



90 THE FtTNBBAl. 

he would be a help to her on her way to heaven. 
' And you know, William, that is what I cannot 
think of you, for your head is full of nothing but 
such pleasures as I lived for once.' She seemed 
much happier now, as if some great weight had 
been taken from her mind ; but I could see well 
what a hard struggle it was for her. William 
would not give up his hopes, and for some time 
he seemed to become a gz'eat deal more steady, 
in order to please her ; but it only lasted for a 
little while, and then wore away again. At last 
he said he would leave the parish, and go into 
service. He went away, and we heard that he 
was gayer than he had ever been. My dear 
Jane prayed for him many times, and begged me 
to pray for him too. But the next news of him 
that came, was, that he had been drowned on a 
party of pleasure ; and we were told that he was 
not sober when it happened. Poor Jane ! she 
never was the same light-hearted creature again. 
She tried to prevent my knowing what she felt : 
but I could often see that she had been crying, 
when she was alone, and even when she sat with 
me she would often turn away her head, because 
her eyes were filling with tears. Then came the 
finding of his body ; and his poor father came 
home almost heart-broken from the funeral. He 
seemed never to forget the words that he had 



THE PVNERAIi. 91 

heard in the burial service ; and he said to me 
when we h'stened to them again together, not 
long afterwards, that he had never prayed to 
Jesus Christ in earnest, or thought seriously about 
him before. His mother, too, was altogether 
broken down with grief. Jane was quite a daugh- 
ter to her ; and when the poor 'woman fell sick, 
Jane nursed her as if she had been her own mo- 
ther. She prayed with her, and she read to her 
for hours together. I shall never forget our 
minister coming to me and saying, " I have just 
been to see poor Dame Brown, but as I got to 
the door I heard a voice praying with her, and I 
stopped to listen — it was your Jane : she was 
praying with her and for her, and I would not 
disturb them, but joined heartily in all her peti- 
tions, for it seemed as if God was teaching her 
what to ask for." It pleased God, as we thought, 
to bless to the old woman her sorrows and her 
instructions : for I believe they turned her heart 
indeed to Him. We followed her to the grave, 
and her poor husband was not long after her. 
He died thanking God who had so heavily afflict- 
ed him. 

' It was but a little while after his death that I 
began to notice that Jane coughed a great deal : 
she grew worse and worse, and soon took, for the 
most part, to her bed. Oh, Sir, it was a blessed 



92 THE FUNERAI.. 

thing to hear her pray of a night, when she thought 
I was asleep. How she would pray for her own 
soul ; and for me, that I might be supported when 
she was gone, and I was left alone in the world, 
a poor childless widow. She lingered on all 
througli the winter ; Eind it seemed as if the Holy 
Spirit of God were making her soul every day 
something fitter for death and for Heaven ; but 
for her body it was like a withering flower, which 
drooped and sickened more and more, in spite of 
all our care and nursing. 

' When the weather got warmer, she grew all 
at , once weaker. There was a rose she had 
watched through the early spring, and it had got 
one bud that showed for flower : she said to me 
as she sat in that chair, ' Mother, I shall not liv6 
to see that bud open ; but I shall see brighter 
things than this world can shew ; for " He is 
faithful" in whom I have trusted ; and He who 
was so gracious to me when I never thought of 
him, and taught me to love and trust in Him, He 
will not now forsake me.' 

' It was only the next day she was taken from 
me, I was sitting by her bed-side, and her poor 
thin hand was in mine — it was worn sadly thin by 
pain and suifering — she turned her face round to 
me, and her eyes brightened as if she saw some- 
thing which was hidden from me. I felt as if an 



THE FUNERAL. 93 

angel must be in the room though I did not see 
him. And so no doubt there was ; one, who was 
to carry the spirit of my dear girl to her Father's 
house. ' Mother,' she said, ' Mother, good bye ; 
the Lord is calling me. He will protect you 
when you are left alone, and you will not be long 
after me, and then we shall all meet again, not to 
be parted any more : there will be father and 
little Anne, too. Above all, there will be that 
dear Saviour who died for us.' She grew very 
faint here ; and her eyes almost closed ; but she 
opened them once more, and turning them again 
on me she said, with the countenance almost of 
an angel — ' Mother, do not weep, I am happy, I 
am so happy : the Lord hath pardoned my ini- 
quities for Christ's sake ; he is my God.' Her 
eyes were still fixed on me — her lips moved, but 
voice was gone — and soon she fell asleep in Jesus, 
as quietly as I had many times watched her fall 
asleep in her cradle. 

It was a sore parting to me ; but I shall not be 
long behind her, and I have a good hope through 
grace that we shall meet again, where I shall 
never have to watch my poor child growing paler 
and paler ; where she shall never know sorrow, 
but shall dwell before the throne for ever. 

I left this good old woman with a saddened but 
thankful heart. I visited the church-yard, and 



94 THB FUNBHAL. 

looked with a deep interest at the spot where one 
so young and so lovely lay ; but she is not there ; 
she is risen — not as yet, indeed, in the body — but 
she is with Christ, which is far better. The Lord 
had chastened her because he loved her ; she 
blossomed early ; her fruit was ripe ; and she was 
received into the joy of her Lord. A single stone 
marks, with unpretending simplicity, the spot 
where Jane was laid. It is still the custom for 
those who had loved her on earth, and been her 
constant companions, to deck her grave with 
the flowers she loved, on the anniversary of her 
death ; and it is a pleasant band that is there 
gathered of the young and artless daughters of 
the village, and then they tell of her sweetness 
and kindness, — of her sorrowful love and of her 
happy death. May her memory be like an 
angel's presence in the midst of them — sweetly 
infusing into their souls her own high desires and 
holy purposes. 



CONFESSION. 



Self-rage for breach of gracious laws, 
The worm of conscience which still gnaws : 
Confusion, terror, trembling, shame, 
And fierce self-blame — 

Bishop Keij. 



\ 



CONFESSION. 

CHAP. I. 



'Yes — deep within, and deeper yet. 
The rankling shaft of conscience hide; 
Q,uick let the swelling eye forget, 
The tears that in the heart abide." 



' Who was that stranger in the Grange Pew 
this morning, Roger?' was the question with 
which, many years ago, I inquired of my clerk, 
concerning one whose marked attention at public 
worship had attracted my especial notice. 
'^ ' She is a Mrs. St. John, Sir, who came into 
the parish last week, and has taken the little 
Grange House. She seems to be a nice quiet 
lady, but nobody knows much about her ; indeed 
no one can tell where she comes from, or what 
brought her to settle here ; neither of her ser- 
vants can say much of her, for they have only 
lived six months with her, and then she was stay- 
ing in a hired house at Brighton, where she knew 
nobody. She is very fond of being alone, they 
say, and seems a very low-spirited woman.' 

There was but little information to be gleaned 
from this account. The few positive facts which 
I 



98 COKFBSSION. 

it disclosed, were probably coloured, perhaps 
invented, by that universal love of the marvellous 
which in a remote village like our's is obhged to 
seize eagerly upon all the scanty materials which 
can be found to satisfy its craving appetite. I 
received them therefore with considerable allow- 
ance. 

A visit which I made at the Grange in the 
course of the next week, according to my univer- 
sal custom with new settlers in the parish, did 
not supply me with much more information con- 
cerning Mrs. St. John. She appeared to be 
•about thirty-five, and was, in fact, as I found 
afterwards, only a few years older. Her man- 
ners were quiet and pleasing, marked, however, 
with a decided peculiarity, although it was very 
difficult to say in what it consisted. It had more 
the appearance of constrained quietness than any 
thing else, as if she was continually tempted to 
restlessness, and prevented it by continual self- 
restraint. Elegance and even expense appeared 
in the furniture of her little cottage, and every 
thing around her seemed to mark that she was in 
affluent circumstances ; the choice of situation 
she attributed to admiration of its quietness and 
beauty, which she had noticed in passing through 
it accidentally during the preceding year. 

After a few weeks, the curiosity of the village 



CONFESSION. y» 

took a fresh direction. The new comer had gra- 
dually assumed her place in our society, and she 
was left to the retirement which she desired, with- 
out exciting attention or remark. Mrs. St. John ■ 
was constantly at church ; she was always ready 
to assist with her purse, our local benevolent in- 
stitutions, and was, upon the whole, universally 
regarded as a very estimable person. She con-- 
tinned to mix very little in the small village circle. 
The same constitutional or acquired shyness which 
led her to avoid all intercourse with the higher 
ranks of our society, prevented also her personal 
attention to the wants of the poor. But she had 
a heart ready to enter into their sorrows, and a 
hand to minister to their necessities, though her 
servants or others were always employed as her 
almoners. There was something about her which 
created in me much interest on her behalf, in spite 
of the repulsive obscurity in which she wished to 
conceal herself from view. She had scarcely 
ever spoken to me without evident constraint. 
The only instance, indeed, of such apparent open- 
ness, which I could remember, was once when 
our conversation turned naturally upon the scene- 
ry of the north of England. She was well ac- 
quainted with it, and spoke of it with a warmth 
and animation which I had never before known 
her countenance or manner display. She paid, 



100 CONFESSION. 

however, in all appearance, the penalty even for 
this transient flash. For she suddenly seemed to 
sink into thoughts of exceeding painfulness ; and 
her manner betrayed openly a degree of agitation 
to which, as much as to pleasurable emotion, it 
had always been a stranger. It was, I thought, 
an opportunity of leading her to what might prove 
useful confidence. The expression of her feelings 
was too plain not to be remarked, and I endea- 
voured to induce her to speak of its cause. But 
it was in vain. She had mentioned to no one the 
existence of a single relative ; and the postman 
declared that he had never brought her a letter ; 
and now when I hoped to have found out whether 
it was family affliction, or still more personal suf- 
ferings, which had eaten so deeply into the springs 
of her spirit, with the view of leading her from her 
grief to its remedy, she contrived to parry every 
attempt which I made to draw her into conver- 
sation. 

Matters continued in this train for many months. 
It was quite evident that there was something pe- 
culiar in her circumstances, which coloured her 
whole life, but which she had no inclination to im- 
part to others ; and I greatly feared that this pre- 
dominant influence, which seemed to tyrannize 
over her soul, was shutting out from it the heal- 
ing and refreshing power of the Gospel of the 



CONFESSION. 101 

grace of God. There was, indeed, always in her 
the same marked attention at the time of public 
worship as there had been when she first attracted 
my notice ; but it was an attention which seemed 
altogether uncombined with feeling ; she listened 
to the truths of God's word, as though they were 
interesting facts with which she had no concern 
whatever. She. was like the spectator of some 
curious sight ; not like one whose own happiness, 
and even existence, were involved in a fearful 
struggle passing before her eyes. Though she 
always left the church before the celebration of 
the Lord's supper, yet it was not with the careless 
mien of one utterly unconcerned about religion, 
but with the apparent reverence of a stranger for 
the imposing rites of some foreign faith. 

She had been almost a year amongst us when 
she took her usual seat in church on the morning 
of Ash-Wednesday. She joined with her ordinary 
propriety in the service of the day ; but as I 
looked round the congregation towards the con- 
clusion of the general address in the Commination 
Service, I perceived that she was not in her usual 
place or posture. In the spot where she sat I 
could observe what passed in her countenance, 
though she was concealed from, the eyes of others 
by the curtained sides of the pew. The forced 
calmness of her features was gone ; — an agony of 
12 



102 CONFESSION. 

expression was settled upon them. She seemed 
scarcely able to breathe, while with her eyes ri- 
veted upon the prayer-book, she followed the ser- 
vice as it proceeded. At length the words of 
hope and promise reached her. The offer of 
pardon — so full, so free, so universal — sounded in 
her ear. For an instant she seemed to lay hold 
upon it. The deep agony of her countenance 
melted into an expression of softened anguish. 
She again breathed ; and tears burst forth and 
fell upon the open book. This was but for a mo- 
ment, and then their source appeared to be sud- 
denly dried up, and her former countenance of 
motionless grief succeeded. Once, during the 
prayers which followed, it seemed that hope was 
again mingled with the bitterness of sorrow ; her 
hands were clasped together as if they would 
wring each other asunder ; and one audible sob 
mingled with the prayers and confessions of the 
people of the Lord. 

During the whole of my sermon her attention 
was of a very different kind from that which she 
had ever before displayed. The declarations of 
God's word fell no longer like the rain upon the 
face of the hard rock, covering its surface, but 
never penetrating into its substance. They were 
like the big drops of the summer shower, which 
the thirsty earth drinks in, and for which she 



^ 



CONFESSION. 103 

sends up to heaven, in a thousand different ways, 
the grateful incense of her thankfulness. 

The sermon was naturally drawn from the ser- 
vice of the day. The guilt of sin in God's sight, 
as measured by the standard of perfect holiness ; 
that awful scrutiny which sees acts in the secret 
thought — effects in their designs — murder in the 
heart of hatred — this was first insisted on : the 
certainty of that punishment which hangs over 
the head of sinners — the fearfulness of its delay, 
which, like the still pause before the peal of thun- 
der, only gives promise of its awfalness : the case 
of a sinner who stifles the voice of conscience : 
and so accustoms his deafened ear to hear un- 
moved the terrors of God's law — these things 
were represented as they are set forth in Holy 
Writ. And then were dwelt upon, the gracious 
promise of the gospel — the universal call to re- 
pentance — the general offer of pardon to every 
sinner — the promise of the Spirit to breathe fresh 
hfe over the withered soul — to open the springs 
of holy affection, which the drought of sin had 
closed — to unseal the fountains of love — to clothe 
again with vernal beauty the dry and leafless 
wilderness — these things were brought home to 
the consciences of those who were present, in the 
very words of Holy Scripture — all were invited 
and urged to accept of these offers — to increase 



104 CONFESSION. 

the angels' joy — to turn unto the Lord and live. 
Many appeared to be affected by the representa- 
tions made of the mercy of the Saviour; but they 
seemed to reach no heart so powerfully as that of 
Mrs. St. John. That she felt most deeply, was 
perfectly certain, though it was difficult to deter- 
mine exactly what was passing in her mind. She 
left the church as usu^l, and no one but myself 
had been able to observe that she had felt any 
thing uncommon, whilst within its walls. In the 
afternoon she was absent from her accustomed 
place ; but I trusted that I should be able before 
• long to avail myself of some opportunity of inter- 
course, to assist her trembling steps in treading 
the difficult path of long deferred repentance. 



CHAP. II. 



' How sweet in that dark hour to fall 
On bosoms waiting to receive 

Our sighs, and gently whisper all! 
They love us — will not God forgive V 



1 HAD intended to take an early opportunity of 
calling upon Mrs. St. John. Before, however, I 



CONFESSION. 105 

had time to put my intention into effect, I received 
a note from herself, requesting me to call and see 
her. I lost no time in acceding to her wish. As 
I walked along the fields, through which lay my 
nearest road to her house, I lifted up my heart in 
prayer to our heavenly Father, asking for wis- 
dom to direct, and grace to strengthen me for 
speaking aright to her who required my aid. I 
was soon with her, and was at first astonished at 
the calmness and self-possession with which she 
began to speak to me about herself; but this had 
become as a second nature to her, and her man- 
ner at all times exhibited but little trace of the 
deep spring of feeling which was often-times in 
full action within her heart. 

' You will excuse, Sir,' she began, ' the liberty 
which I have taken in requesting this visit from 
you. I know that you will excuse it, although I 
am almost a stranger to you, and have no rightful 
claim upon your sympathy or advice.' 

I was not slow in assuring her of my anxious 
wish to be in any way useful to her. 

* I sincerely thank you. Sir, for this kindness,' 
she continued, ' but even now I scarcely know 
how to begin speaking of that tale of sin and mi- 
sery which I must open to you, before you can 
encourage or advise me.' 

It was not very easy to see how best to lead 



106 CONFBSSION. 

her on to speak of that which, whilst her heart 
wished it uttered, her lips knew not how to pro- 
nounce. I said, however, what I could — and she 
went on. 

' How strange it seems, that without knowing 
any thing of those dark secrets of which my heart 
is full, you should have spoken so much yesterday, 
which exactly came home to my case.' 

* Herein,' I answered her, ' is ihe power of 
God's word, which is likened ,to a two edged 
sword, because it thus searches the conscience, 
and lays it bare before God.' 

' Indeed it has laid mine bare. I can scarcely 
believe myself to be the same person that I was 
yesterday. My existence is different. What I 
could look at coldly then, seems now utterly to 
appal me. I am now longing to speak to you of 
that, which death would not then have wrung 
from me.' 

' God be praised, my dear Madam, if he has 
led you from a state of carelessness about your 
soul, to desire its salvation earnestly.' 

' Oh ! I will praise him ; even now I could 
praise him, if he were to enable me to repent in- 
deed ; but, Sir, there is such a thing as despair. 
There is that iron cage, of which you spoke yes- 
terday, wherein a convinced sinner may be held 
by God's justice to see those sins of which he can- 



CONFESSION. 107 

not repent : to shudder before that hell, from 
which there is no power to fly.' 

She spoke all this with such perfect calmness 
of manner, that a stranger could scarcely have 
believed her words to come from her heart. But 
I read in this absence of turbulent emotion, that 
these drops of bitterness were in truth wrung from 
her very heart's core. ' The state of despera- 
tion,' I said, ' is indeed one of the most unknown 
horror ; but your desire to confess your sins to 
God, whatever they have been, is a hopeful sign 
that he is giving you the spirit of penitence ; and 
not scaring you with the visions of his wrath.' 

' Indeed I do desire to be enabled to repent, 
but can there be hope for me ? I have wrestled 
with convictions ; I have stifled conscience ; I 
have hidden my sin ; and all the while I have 
gone on listening to the word of God — if that can 
be called listening, which has been in truth bend- 
ing to it a deafened ear.' 

* These are indeed gz-eat sins, but if God has 
given you grace to see their guilt, there is nothing 
in them to shut you out fi'om receiving pardon. 
" The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all 
sin." ' 

' Yes, I caught at those words yesterday, but 
can there be pardon for my sins ? You do not 
know to what a sinner you are speaking.' 



108 CONFESSION. 

' She was pardoned " out of whom went seven 
devils." How then should any despair who de- 
sire to turn to Christ?' 

' Yes,' she resumed, ' but her sins were com- 
mitted before she had known Christ ; they were 
not the offences of a baptized member of the 
Church of Jesus ; and yet her sin was less than 
mine has been.' 

She paused for a moment, but before I could 
again turn her eyes to the sacrifice offered for 
sin, she said : ' Sir, I must tell you all, before I 
can find comfort from what you say ; the dark 
thought still rises in my mind — he would not speak 
to me thus if he knew all ; he deals with me as 
with a common offender. Hard as it is lo debase 
myself so low before any fellow creature, I feel 
that I can have no peace till it is done. May I 
speak freely to you V 

' Undoubtedly you may, if you judge it to be 
needful for your comfort ; though it is not ne- 
cessary for your salvation.' 

' But what. Sir, if my sins should subject me to 
the punishment of human laws ; may I still con- 
fess them to you, or will you refuse to hear 
them V 

This was rather a startling question ; it had 
never occurred to me that I might be placed in 
such a painful situation by knowing what she 



CONFESSIOIf. 109 

wished to say to me. Its disclosure might be re- 
quisite to prevent future evil, and justice might 
therefore require that I should insist upon her sin 
being no longer concealed. 

After a moment's silence, I endeavoured to 
explain this to her, and added, * that she might 
confess all which burdened her conscience fully 
to her God. That He did not of necessity re- 
quire confession to man, except where right was 
injured by our silence.' 

' That is what I feared,' she replied calmly, 
' you will not let me tell you my crimes ; you will 
leave me to despair.' 

' No, Mrs. St. John, that I will not do ; as I 
said before, if you judge it absolutely needful to 
your peace, that you should tell me the exact 
circumstances of that sin with which your con- 
science is burdened, I am ready to listen to you ; 
but I would have you act herein upon the calmest 
and most deliberate judgment.' 

' I have thought over it, it is no hasty resolu- 
tion ; no easy determination, it was a perfect 
rending of my heart before I could resolve to 
do it.' 

Once more I told her that she might speak to 
me without fear ; but wishing her to act only up- 
on the most settled determination, I left her for 
that day, promising to resume our conversation 
K 



110 CONFESSIOJf. 

on the morrow, and only urging her before I 
went, to pray earnestly for grace to enable her to 
lay hold firmly of the sure promise of forgiveness 
made to all penitent sinners by Jesus Christ. The 
next day I found her awaiting my arrival. There 
was the same calmness, and the same hidden 
energy of feeling in her whole manner. It was 
some time befoi-e our conversation assumed any 
thing of a settled tone ; and even then it was with 
many interruptions that she imparted to me the 
story of her life. The sum of her account shall 
be thrown together in the next chapter. 



CHAP. III. 



Tell. Heaven has wrath that can relent no more— 
The grave, dark deeds that cannot be undone. 



I WAS born in the town of , of which my 

father was at that time the Rector. He died 
whilst I was very young, leaving just sufficient 
property to provide for the widow who survived 
him, and the daughter who had lost a father's 

care. My mother moved from the town of 

and settled at C , where a brother of my 



CONFESSION. Ill 

father's practised as an eminent surgeon. My 
mother did not survive her husband many years ; 
and I was still a mere girl when I was transfer- 
red by her death to my uncle's care. He was a 
kind, indulgent man, and full of affection towards 
me ; but having never married, or known any 
thing of female society, he was not the most fit 
guai'dian for his orphan niece. No expense was 
spared in my education ; and as I readily ac- 
quired accompHshments, I found many to admire 
and flatter my early talents. I grew up from 
being a spoiled child, into an undisciplined matu- 
rity. At this time a young man who was the 
son of an old friend of my uncle's, came to pay 
him a visit. We were naturally thrown together, 
and an attachment was soon formed between us. 
It was not long before it was declared ; and as 
there were no impediments in the way, our ap- 
proaching marriage was soon acknowledged. — 
He had a small fortune in the north of England, 
and with my father's property, and my expecta- 
tions from my uncle, it was in all respects a suit- 
able alliance. It was determined that it should 
take place in about three months ; as my intended 
husband had to pay a visit to some near relations, 
and arrange some family business in the north 
before his marriage, he left me with many vows 
of continued affection, and I believe with sincere 



112 CONFESSION. 

attachment. For a time his letters continued to 
breathe the same language — then they grew 
colder, and at length they were entirely inter- 
mitted. At first when they ceased, I concluded 
that he was about immediately to return, and 
wished to surprise me with his unexpected arrival. 
In time however I could no longer cherish this 
hope, I began to enterjiain the gloomiest appre- 
hensions of his altered or estranged affections. 
Yet when I looked at the locket which he had 
given me when we parted, or read over the let- 
ters which he had written when he had first left 
me, I knew not how to listen to these apprehen- 
sions. My uncle had grown very infirm and un- 
observant of late, and had resigned most of his 
business into the hands of a young apprentice, 
who before my engagement had long annoyed 
me with his Sfecret addresses. My altered spirits 
were however at last noticed by my uncle ; and 
having made out the cause of my trouble, he was 
about to write to the young man, and bring him 
to some explanation. Just at this time, as I took 
up the paper to read to him after dinner, my eye 
glanced in the list of marriages upon the name of 
my faithless lover, as united to a young lady of 
the north, who was designated as a considerable 
heiress. The paper dropt from my hands, and I 
fell back in my chair, almost fainting. My imcle 



coNFEssIo^^ 113 

ftoon learnt the whole, and did what he could to 
comfort nje. I was most deeply wounded. My 
affections had been entirely fixed upon my in- 
tended husband — they therefore had been sorely 
lacerated — my vanity too was grievously offended. 
I had never been used to contradiction or disap. 
pointment, and could scarcely brook the most 
trifling opposition to my wishes. By this neglect 
and sorrow I was almost maddened. I knew not 
what I did ; and in a fit of rage and anger against 
him who had deserted me, I consented to elope 
from my uncle's house with his apprentice. We 
were secretly married, and repaii-ed to a neigh- 
bouring town, whence we purposed shortly re- 
turning to seek a reconciliation with my uncle. 
This purpose had not been executed, when the 
news reached us that he had suddenly died in a 
fit. He had lefl me his sole heir, and it was ne- 
cessary that we should immediately return to his 
house. With what a heavy heart did I re-enter 
it. How bitterly did I accuse myself, of having 
caused perhaps his death, by my unkind and fool- 
ish desertion of his house. How miserable was 
I, in the prospect of the portion which I had cho- 
sen, wedded to a man whom I had never loved, 
but whom I had married in a fit of anger against 
another. Ashamed of myself, of my husband, 
and of my conduct, I scarcely knew what to do. 
K2 



114 CONFESSION. 

This state of feeling was not very likely to make 
my married life happy. My husband was a 
coarse-minded, uneducated person, with a degree 
of affection for me, but much more for my for- 
tune, which he found entirely in his own power. 
He could not bear with my waywardness of tern- 
per, and evident contempt of his manners. Dif- 
ferences soon arose between us ; they grew up 
into quarrels, and from these began a settled feel- 
ing of disgust within me, against him whom I had 
wilfully chosen as the partner of my life. We 

had left the town of C immediately after 

concluding my uncle's affairs ; for I could not 
bear to continue in a place where my misfortunes 
and my follies were in every one's mouth. In 
the distant part of the country where we had 
settled, we were both of us altogether unknown. 
My husband's manners were not such as would 
naturally entitle us to the attention of the gentry 
in the town where we were now established, and 
therefore, in spite of our comparative wealth, 
we were thrown into a lower grade of society 
than that which I had been used to occupy. 
This again rankled in my mind, and made me 
more ill-tempered and peevish towards him, upon 
whom I charged, what was in fact the fruit of my 
own folly. The natural consequence of this was, 
that my company became more and more dia- 



CONFESSION. 115 

tasteful to him. Having no resources within him- 
self, and being thus prevented from seeking for 
domestic comfort, he was naturally led to find his 
pleasures in the company of those whom he could 
command as associates. These were young men 
of his own age, and of similar habits ; attorney's 
clerks, young surgeons, or the underlings of some 
of the great mercantile houses. With them he 
was a person of the utmost importance. His 
command of money gave him great weight with 
them, because it put unnumbered gratifications 
within their reach. He was flattered and followed 
by all ; and moulded by the cleverest amongst 
them to their own purposes. The vulgarity of 
his mind, soon enabled them to gain a strong in- 
fluence over him. He was their companion at 
the race course, at billiards, at the tavern, and 
by degrees, in all the low abodes of debauchery. 
I had fallen meanwhile into *ullpn indifference as 
to whatever he did. His manners, his company, 
his excesses, all filled me with unspeakable dis- 
gust, but I never attempted to reclaim him from 
them. At times I would break forth indeed into 
violent abuse or cutting reproaches, but for the 
most part, I merely manifested towards him silent 
contempt and settled hatred. My heart I felt 
was getting every day colder and harder. I 
hated my husband, and every one around me ; I 



116 CONFESSION. 

even hated myself; nor did I ever endeavour for 
a moment to rouse myself from this miserable con- 
dition. We had now been settled for five or six 
years in our new neighbourhood, and every month 
which passed, degraded my husband's character 
still lower. He was the companion of all the 
dissolute and disreputable young men in the town. 
He seldom opened his rpouth in my presence, ex- 
cept to reply to some cutting reproaches, with 
oaths or blasphemies; and was continually 
brought home in a state of the most complete and 
brutal intoxication. This mode of life had pro- 
ceeded to such a pitch, that his health was seri- 
ously impaired, and the surgeon who attended 
him, threatened him with an attack of apoplexy, 
as the probable result of a continuance in it. He 
returned, however, without a pause, to his former 
courses, as soon as he was able to leave the house. 
I had reached so miserable a state of mind, that I 
felt perfectly careless of any thing which befel 
him. It would not have given me pleasure, but 
neither would it in the least have pained me, had 
he fallen a victim to intemperance, or perished 
in a drunken broil ; and as to the probability of 
his extravagance reducing us to poverty, this I 
rather desired than not, because I thought that 
when deserted by his sunshine friends, he would 
at last feel my reproaches. Such was the course 



CONFESSION. 117 

of our lives, when the post brought me one day a 
letter, which at once roused me from that malig- 
nant apathy into which I had by degrees subsided. 
It was from the only sister of him who had been 
intended for my husband. It had followed me 
from the town of C , to which she had direct- 
ed it. So complete had been the interruption of 
all intercourse between us, that I had never heard 
his name mentioned since our correspondence 
ceased, nor did he even know of my marriage. 
The object of the letter was to tell me that her 
brother, after an unhappy marriage of six years, 
had lost his wife ; that during the whole of her 
life, he had never for a moment forgotten me ; 
that I had always possessed his affections, even 
when he was cunningly inveigled into a mar- 
riage with another ; that if I was still unmarried, 
and could forgive the past, he might yet be happy, 
and would wait only for my permission to write 
or hasten to me. The whole was so simply, and 
yet earnestly told by his sister, that I could not 
doubt its truth ; yet with what madness did it fill 
my soul ; my affections, which had never since 
my marriage found any thing on which to fix, 
fastened instantly again upon their former object. 
My pride was gone, and I would have given 
worlds to be able at once to write to him, to as- 
sure him of his entire forgiveness, and bid him 



118 CONFESSION. 

hasten to me ; and * all this happiness,' I said to 
myself, ' which was still in store for me, all this I 
have wilfully cast from me, to gratify my anger. 
Oh, fearfully have I been punished for the grief 
of heart which I caused my uncle.' I could 
write no answer to the letter which I had received. 
I vainly raged, and dashed myself against the 
bars, with which my o^n free choice had envi- 
roned me. My hatred to my husband became 
more intense than ever. He was not merely my 
disgrace, my torment, and my punishment ; he 
now appeared to be the only obstacle which 
stood between me and happiness. I knew 
not how impossible it was for outward cir- 
cumstances to confer peace upon me, whilst my 
heart was full of all evil passions. Such, there- 
fore, was my feeling, and my hatred of my bus- 
band was proportionably increased ; still I had 
never yet been tempted to any specific crime 
against him ; my heart was not sufficiently satu- 
rated with hate ; it was not fully ripe for the 
temptations which afterwards assailed me. It 
was not very long before I received a second let- 
ter from the same quarter; its tenor was pre- 
cisely the same. It pressed me with even more 
earnestness than before for a favourable answer. 
It described the anxiety of her brother's mind ; 
the restless interchange of faint hope and gloomy 



CONFESSION. 119 

depression ; and begged me, whatever was my 
decision, to concede at least so much to former 
affection, as to write to him myself, and acquaint 
him with my feelings. This letter almost unset- 
tied my reason ; for although I had even then 
acquired that perfectly calm exterior which you 
cannot but have noticed ; and which sprung at 
first from sullen pride and bitter hatred ; yet the 
convulsions of my heart which were concealed 
beneath this iron mask were truly terrific. I 
began at length to write ; I poured forth bitter 
reproaches against his unfaithfulness ; I painted 
my hopeless misery, and spoke of him as its cause ; 
at first this vent of its rage seemed to allay the 
irritation of my soul ; but then my affection to- 
wards him made me as passionately destroy the 
letter. I had been writing again — had confessed 
my affection — and told him of my misery, — and 
again I had destroyed this letter too, and M^as sit- 
ting in speechless anguish, seeing no winding, no 
doubling, by which I might haply escape from the 
destructive toils in which I had involved myself, 
when my husband was brought home from one 
of his carousals in a state of brutal intoxication. 
My first impression when I saw him, was, that 
he had lost his life in some drunken frolic, and my 
first feeling was one of joy, of satisfied hatred, of 
unexpected deliverance. But in a moment I was 



120 CONFESSION. 

undeceived, and again every other feeling was 
swallowed up in sensations of unutterable loath- 
ing and disgust. Then it was, when my heart 
was ripe for it, by harbouring and gloating on its 
malignant passions, that the tempter first suggest, 
ed to me darker thoughts than any in which I had 
yet indulged. Then it was that it was just hint- 
ed to me, that a way^of escape did lie open to 
me ; that his death would set me free ; that his 
habits of life made his death possible, nay, proba- 
ble ; and there were other yet more deadly 
thoughts following up these which were just 
sketched before my eyes. Oh, had I then wrest- 
led with the evil one : oh, had I offered up one 
prayer for deliverance : oh, had I once asked for 
grace, from what a load of remembered sin might 
my soul still be free. But instead of this, I 
cherished these thoughts of evil — I warmed the 
viper in my bosom : I tempted the tempter, and 
he did indeed come to me; for the most part of 
that night I lay awake in a hardened, calculating 
commerce of thought with the extremest iniquity : 
when I did at last fall asleep, it was only to dream 
of the same evil subjects ; the happiness almost 
within my grasp, the misery actually present. 
The subtle enemy pursued me even in sleep. The 
crime was light — it was committed — it had been 
successful — and I was happy ! I started from my 



CONFESSION. 121 

restless slumbers to that sickening reality of woe, 
which after such visions, overwhelms returning 
sense. The day was a day of misery — after a 
scene of bitter reproach on my side, and blasphe- 
mous passion on his, my husband left me to rejoin 
his dissolute companions. He had a particular 
engagement to spend the day with them, and he 
went to renew the excesses which had disgusted 
me so deeply the night before. When he had 
left me alone, the temptations of the evil cfne be- 
came darker and more abundant. I let my mind 
dwell upon what he suggested as a possibility — 
my wrongs were remembered — his utterly depra- 
ved character, which was hardening every day — 
our almost exhausted resources. I pondered over 
these things with the bitterest feelings of remorse 
and hatred, until I was prepared for any wicked- 
ness. I was upon the tempter's ground ; how 
could I but fall his prey. The suggestions of 
evil were poured into my mind ; so violent were 
they, that I fancied I could almost hear an audi- 
ble voice say, ' Poison him — poison him !' It is 
strange, even to myself, that I did not start with 
horror from the suggestion — but instead of doing 
so, I indulged it, and soon I was actually ovier- 
come. , In the cupboard in my husband's room, 
was a small parcel of arsenic, which had long 
lain there unnoticed. I took it, and impregnated 
L 



122 CONFESSION. 

with it some cakes, of which my Imsband was very 
fond. I determined even that very night to leave 
them in his way ; accordingly in the evening, I 
placed them on the table in the dining-room, 
leaving the wine by them, and went up stairs to 
wait for his return. At last, I thought I heard 
him come, and for the first time I realized what 
I had done ; the street ^oor opened, I thought 
that it was too late to attempt to remove them, 
and I sat in a perfect agony of alarm. In a few 
minutes all was quiet, and this convinced me that 
it was a stranger's call. Thankful for this de- 
hverance, I sprung up, and as soon as the servant 
was gone down stairs, rushed into the room to 
secure and destroy the instruments of evil ; almost 
before I was in the room, a loud and noisy 
knocking at the door announced the reality of my 
husband's arrival. The hasty steps of the ser- 
vant, as he hurried to his master's impatient sum- 
mons, shewed me that not a moment was to be 
lost ; but what could I do ? I could not escape 
unnoticed up stairs. In despair I seized the plate, 
and pushed it to the further end of a closet which 
we seldom used. I went directly to meet him. 
To my question of what had brought him home 
so much earlier than usual, I got little or no 
answer ; but I soon found that he was very far 
from sober, and m a violent passion. He had 



CONFESSIOX. 12S 

quarrelled with his usual dissolute companions. 
Partly through sport, and partly perhaps to engage 
him in play, they had drugged his wine. He disco- 
vered the fact after he had taken a considerable 
quantity, but not enough to cause the stupor which 
a little more would have ensured. A quarrel had 
arisen in consequence of the discovery ; and being 
unusually excited by the effect of the wine and drugs, 
he had broken out into a furious passion, and left 
them with the utmost violence. His anger was 
ROW directed against all whom he met with ; and 
his boisterous rage in a moment revived within 
«ie all the evil passions which the late agitation 
and alarm of my mind had for a short season dis- 
pelled. I left him, with all the bitter and har- 
dened feelings which were too familiar to my 
heart. I soon heard him ringing furiously for 
more wine, and learned that he was determined 
to finish his carousal at home ; he was at last 
carried up stairs perfectly insensible.' 

At this period of her story Mrs. St. John's 
apparent calmness entirely forsook her. She 
was seized with a sort of convulsive affection 
resulting from the violent struggles of suppressed 
agitation. It was frightful to me to witness this ; 
for the strange contrast between the perfect calm 
• — the apparent apathy which she commonly ex- 
hibited, and this impetuous storm of feeling which 



124 eoNFESBidy, 

now overcame her, made me fear greatly lest the 
stern control which slie commonly maintained 
over her feelings, might not be in reality too 
much for human nature, and lead to some fear- 
ful result. I would have interrupted her stor}^ 
for the present with the view of calming her 
emotions, but she would not allow me to go ; and 
£ind after a little while continued her account. 

' Yes, Sir, that was his last night, he never 
woke again except in the most extreme agony ; 
it lasted but for a few minutes, and life was 
extinct. But what were my feelijigs ! — my first 
impulse was to fly to the room where I had left 
that by which I had intended to effect what other 
means, as I thought, had brought about. The 
instinct of self-preservation made me desire their 
.destruction, lest any inquiry into the cause of my 
husband's death should involve me in the charge 
of having committed the crime of which I deemed 
myself innocent. I saw at once, on entering the 
room, amongst the marks of the dreadful intem- 
perance of the miserable man, that it was my 
hand which had caused his death. The cupboard 
was open — the cakes had been taken down — had 
been eaten — had produced their effect — and be 
was a corpse ! My mind was stunned by the 
violence of conflicting feelings ; and overwhelming 
fear of what might be the consequences of my 



COA'FESSION. ' 125 

crime ; the shame — the death which my malig- 
nant passions had probably prepared for myself 
— the sense of my guilt — the feelings of horror — 
the excuses of the tempter — and, must I speak it, 
yes, even in that dreadful hour, the joy of myde- 
liverance, — all these things pressed upon me at ' 
once, with an insupportable violence. Yet my 
circumstances required that I should do much ; 
and I forced myself from these meditations to begin 
immediately to act. The news of my husband's 
death was spread abroad. My dread was that a 
coroner's inquest would be considered necessary. 
But there were none to care about the unhappy 
man. The mouths of his late companions were 
stopped, because they dreaded as much as I did 
the result of an inquest. They attributed his 
death to the effects of those drugs which they had 
given him with the view of producing only uncon- 
sciousness and stupor. The neighbours set it 
down to the effects of his habitual and disgrace. 
ful intemperance ; and his recent illness gave a 
strong colour of probability to this idea. In his 
own house the same notion was prevalent. He 
was hated by all his servants for his violence and 
passion ; and what could be a more natural ter- 
mination of that disgraceful scene which they had 
witnessed on the preceding evening than a sudden 
attack of apoplexy and death. Thus far then it 
L2 



128 COXFESSIOX. 

seemed that the evil spirit had made my way of 
wickedness prosperous. His funeral was past. 
No suspicions had been excited — and I could not 
but consider myself as out of danger. But you 
may readily believe that I was not easy. Al- 
though I had already begun to quiet my con- 
science by persuading myself that I had not wil- 
lingly caused his death, yet I could enjoy no 
peace of mind. I could not bear to continue 

longer at L ; and as there was nothing 

unnatural in my leaving it, I determined, after 
arranging what matters of business remained un- 
settled, to remove to a distance from this scene 
of my misery. But I carried with me to my new 
abode that distempered heart which was the cause 
of my suffering. I had nothing, indeed, now in 
my situation to call forth those passions of hatred 
and contempt which had lately ruled in my soul. 
I was endeavouring to quiet the stings of con- 
science — not, alas ! by seeing my guilt, and 
seeking for its true remedy ; but by inventing 
excuses for my sin, and vainly seeking to palli- 
ate its enormity. To silence the voice of God 
within me was now my great object, and the 
enemy of my soul was, no doubt, well contented 
that I should; as it prevented my making any 
attempt to be cleansed from my iniquity. It is 
now almost inconceivable to myself, how I could 



eoNFESsiox. 127 

succeed in shutting my eyes to my guilt — hoAV far 
my vain and weak excuses hid from me the 
reality of my wickedness. Not that I ever knew 
what true peace was. I had continually present 
with me, an aching remembrance of uneasiness — 
a sense that all was not right — a secret suspicion 
of my dangerous state — but I was daily more and 
more able to lose sight of this as far as it was a 
governing principle of action. I sheltered myself 
under the thought, that I had not intended to 
commit the crime which pressed upon me. I be- 
came, too, very regular in my observance of all 
the outward ordinances of God ; I gave liberally 
to the poor — ^^in short I was more and more suc- 
cessful in quieting the accuser within me. Just 
at this time, I received a third letter from the 
sister of Mr. St. John. It once more, and for 
the last time, pressed for an answer to the appli- 
cations which she had made to me before. After 
many struggles, I determined upon my reply : it 
was long before my conscience, blunted as it had 
now become, would allow me to grasp the fruits 
of my past sin. Although the promise of it had 
undoubtedly been one great instrument in the 
tempter's hands, in leading me into the commission 
of crime ; yet when the deed was effected, — 
when my husband had been cut off in the midst 
of his iniquities, when the fear of a disgraceful 



128 CONFESSION. 

punishment liad overtaken me : and afterwards, 
when conscience would scarcely let me revert to 
that which had been the bait to lead me on to 
destruction — for all this time I had been utterly 
unable to think of answering the letter which I 
had already received : and even now, when the 
application was renewed, it was not without a 
grievous conflict between inclination, and a con- 
science not thoroughly asleep, that I acceded to 
the proposal, and became within a few months 
afterwards, the wife of Mr. St. John. But oh, 
how true is the declaration of Scripture, that 
"there is no peace fur the wicked." For even 
now, when I had reached the height of my desire ; 
when I was reposing on that very spot, which 
from a distance, had appeared to be gilded by the 
fullest bursts of sunshine. Even at this moment 
I was miserable. I found that the place which I 
had chosen for myself was strewed with thorns. It 
was impossible that a heart which had been hard- 
ened as mine had been, could soften at once into 
all the soothing feelings of domestic affection : the 
storms of hatred, the blights of scorn, had swept 
over it, and marred the face of nature : it was in 
vain that vernal seasons smiled upon me ; for me 
there was no second spring. I had been benumb- 
ed : I had become insensible, through the icy 
coldness in which every feeling had been long 



eoisFEssioN. 129 

subdued, and the suddenness of the warmth which 
was now shed around them, gave them not again 
the glow of health. It was with a fitful and 
dangerous rapidity, that the blood flowed again 
through my veins; it was with an universal 
sense of pain and suifering, that I felt myself 
restored to existence. If I enjoyed for a moment 
any pleasure, my heart throbbed immediately 
with the remembrance of what had passed over 
me. As, too, I had no living person to whom I 
could impart my feelings, they preyed the more 
painfully upon my own heart ; while they formed 
in me, more and more, that deceitful outward 
cahn which .seems to mock the hidden struggles 
of my soul. Nor were other causes of sorrow 
wanting. The only infant, whose smile had ever 
cheered my comfortless soul, lived but just long 
enough to draw out the affections of a mother 
towards her ; to let me wind my heart-strings 
around her, and then she was taken from me, as 
one too pure to be entrusted longer to the care 
of the dark and miserable being, which sin had 
made me. A few years more passed over me, 
and I was left a widow also, desolate upon the 
face of the earth, torn in every affection, and 
entirely crushed in heart ; behind me was remorse ; 
with me, anguish ; before me, despair. After 
wandering through different parts of our land, I 



130 CONFESSION. 

settled as you know, in this village. Here I have 
begun to learn my real state ; here the veil has 
been torn down, and I do indeed see my misera- 
ble guilt. I have been long striving against the 
conviction of it, but I see it now. I see that in 
God's sight, I am stained with my husband's 
blood. I see that I am a thing which man des- 
pises, and which God abhors. Oh sin ! — cursed 
sin — this is thy work !' 

The calmness with which Mrs. St John had 
spoken, seemed entirely lost as she reached the 
conclusion of her tale of misery. Indeed, for 
some time past, her manner had outwardly be- 
trayed the bitterness of the storm which raged 
within. I had in vain endeavoured to persuade 
her to defer the relation of her history till the 
next day. I had become alarmed for her ; her 
smothered, yet bursting emotions, forcibly re. 
minded me of the dreadful swell, which from 
below his feet, reaches the ear of the affrighted 
huntsman, as he passes over the vast field of ice 
which chains the surface of the northern seas. 
At first he listens to its faint sound ; soon he hears 
its crashing roar ; the ice begins to swell beneath 
his tread, and to subside again with a painful and 
unsteady motion ;■ it cracks, it shivers, it sepa- 
rates into a thousand islands. So it appeared 
now to be with her. She stopped abruptly in the 



CONFESSION. , 131 

middle of this last sentence, and begun to mani- 
fest the full effects of her long and stubbornly, 
maintained compression of emotion. I was obli- 
ged to call in her servants to her assistance : and 
it was not till late at night, that the sedatives 
which were administered to her, had produced 
any effect in calming her excited nerves. My 
visit was thus terminated abruptly, and I left her 
cottage with a mind full of the affecting details 
which I had heard. Here was the mystery of 
her frozen exterior completely explained. It was 
deep-seated and smothered remorse preying upon 
her vitals ; and how had she been led into this 
state? How had the light hearted and happy 
girl, full of spirits and accomplishments, delight- 
ing in her own powers, and in the affectionate 
admiration of her friends — unthwarted and almost 
uncontrolled — how had she been brought into this 
unhappy frozen state of being ? Alas ! how 
powerful an alchemist is sin ; how can it extract 
the bitter principle of a living death from every 
material ? How can its touch turn every sub- 
stance into the elements of destruction ? Yet 
even of her I had now good hopes : her heart was 
evidently touched ; the frost was fast dissolving, 
and though no worldly power or pleasure could 
ever again clothe the wintry scene with beauty, 
yet, what is too hard for the Lord? Thou, 



132 coNFESsrorr. 

Lord, canst add this hardened heart to the tro- 
phies of thy grace. Thou canst speak peace to 
this wounded conscience ; and even from the dust 
of sin and the ashes of contrition canst bid her 
raise her voice in joy and thanksgiving. Thou 
canst refine these dregs of a mis-spent life, and 
turn them to thy praise. O Lord, work this 
work within her, and ]e;t the glory be thine ! 



CHAP. IV. 



"And is there in God's world so drear a place, 
Where the loud bitter cry is raised in vain 7" 



My visit to the Grange was not long delayed. 
The very next morning I was with Mrs. St. John 
in good time. The first thing which struck me 
was, an unusual restlessness of manner, which 
gave me great uneasiness on her account. A 
stranger might not, perhaps, have noticed it : but 
to my feelings it formed a most alarming contrast 
with her usual extreme quietness. I found her ■ 
under the deepest dejection and alarm. Upon 
inquiry I learned that she had not slept at all du- 
ring the night, and had appeared to her servants 



CONFESSION. 133 

to be in a most distressing state of nervous ex- 
citement ; but they were entirely ignorant of its 
cause. She began to speak to me of the subject 
as soon as the door was closed, and I was seated 
by her. 

' How terrible, Sir, is the awakenmg of a con- 
science which has been long asleep ; how horrible 
is its voice ; there is not, I believe, a single 
thought or word of hatred which defiled my heart 
or mouth through those miserable years of evil, 
which has not now returned, with separate tongue, 
to reproach me for my sin. Things which I have 
never remembered since they were committed, 
there they stand fresh and black in guilt, up- 
braiding and condemning my soul. What hope 
can I have of pardon ? Here are the very tor- 
ments of hell begun already.' 

I endeavoured to soothe her, and taking up her 
last words, I answered her, ' Yes, it is perfectly 
true that remorse of conscience will be one of the 
bitterest pangs of that world of punishment. We 
cannot doubt that it will ; but then it is not such 
remorse as can be felt on this side of the grave. 
What will make its sting so intolerable there, is, 
that it is hopeless. That there is no room for 
deliverance from it ! No hope of a Saviour's 
help : here there is always this hope. And even 
to you there is, I trust, balm in his message of 
M 



134 CONFESSION. 

mercy. There is, remember, mercy for the very 
chief of sinners; there is forgiveness for all who 
will come unto Jesus Christ for it.' 

I know. Sir, that there is ; for it was the thought 
of that which first moved me to think of my sin ; 
it was hearing of Christ's mercy, which made the 
sound of his threatening so fearful in my ears. 
But what I fear is, that I cannot come to Christ. 
I see my great sinfulness. I am full of horror at 
the sight of it. I cannot for a single moment fly 
from the remembrance of it ; but I fear I have no 
godly sorrow — I have no penitent feeling. I 
tremble before God's holiness. I am maddened 
by the sight of his justice. I cannot bear to think 
of his power ; but I have none of the feelings of 
a child towards an angry parent. What I wish 
for is, that God should not be — or be so holy, or 
so powerful. Is not this a sign that I am given 
up to a reprobate mind V 

' You are strongly tempted to despair ; but I 
trust, that through God's grace, you may yet be 
rescued from it. It is the common method which 
Satan adopts : he would make us think lightly of 
sin, until it is committed. He tells us that it will 
be easy to repent hereafter, and thus having lulled 
conscience to sleep, triumphed over us, and led 
us into his toils, then he turns round, and becomes 
the accuser ; then he sounds in our ears the cry 



CONFESSION. 135 

of vengeance — he turns the glass, and magnifies 
our guilt, and bids us despair of pardon, that he 
may keep us from the Saviour. Oh ! this is a 
dreadful temptation, Mrs. St. John ; it robs the 
cross of its virtue, the Saviour of his power.' 

' Yet, what can I do for comfort ? There seems 
to be a voice within me, accusing me continually. 
I seem to have the mark of Cain set upon me — 
my heart tells me, that this is why I was spared ; 
that I might live to be a lasting monument of the 
burning wrath of an Almighty God.' 

' But this is the very temptation to despair, 
against which I have been warning you. You 
are tempted to entertain hard thoughts of God. 
Thoughts altogether injurious to his goodness and 
his truth. For he has promised to forgive the 
sins of all who truly turn to him for pardon 
through the blood of the Redeemer ; and though 
it seems to you, that you think of nothing but 
your own guilt ; yet you do truly doubt, either 
his power to save you, or the truth of his promise 
that he will. Turn from these hard thoughts of 
him, and remember that merciful declaration, 
" The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us 
from all sin." ' 

' Oh ! I have tried to think so ; but it seems as 
if Scripture and conscience alike testified against 
me. If I would speak of the blood of Christ in 



136 eoxrEssrox. 

prayer, the blood of Abel rises on my tongue in- 
stead, and crieth for vengeance against me. If I 
say, " Lord, have mercy upon me," it seems as 
if my prayer were answered at once, by the re- 
proaches of him towards whom I showed no mer. 
cy — whom I cut off in the very midst of his sins, 
and sent into the presence of his Judge, before he 
had time to offer up/One prayer, to put up one 
petition for pardon.' 

' These, you see, are all the feelings of your 
own mind. You must not put them against the 
word of God's promise. He has declared to all, 
that if they will but turn unto him, they shall 
have life.' 

' Yes, Sir, if they turn, but there is the very 
seal of my despair, / cannot turn. I might have 
turned — even after my great sin, I might have 
turned. I know that God often called me to re- 
pentance — and I believe, that if I would have lis- 
tened to him, he would have given me grace, and 
made me able to repent. He called me by my 
first alarms ; he called me by blighting all my 
happiness when I was again married ; he called 
me by my infant's death ; he has called me a 
thousand times by the voice of conscience within 
me ; but I have refused to listen : I have stifled 
conscience ; I have quieted its alarms, and there- 
fore has he awoke against me to judgment — 



CONFESSION. 137 

therefore has he turned and become my enemy — 
therefore does he rage against me with all his 
Storms. Oh ! that I could speak to other sinners 
who are beginning to stifle the voice of con- 
science, and warn them by the awfulness of a 
hardened heart, not to continue in their sin, " lest 
they also come into this place of torment." ' 

Having endeavoured as far as I could to an- 
swer all her suggestions, I concluded that the best 
mode of dealing with the unhappy woman would 
be, to read to her, with but few comments, some 
of the most gracious promises of the word of 
God ; and then to endeavour to lead her into 
prayer ; that the eye of even a trembling faith 
might be raised to Him who " will save to the 
uttermost, all that come unto God by him." I 
read to her, accordingly, the xvth chapter of St. 
Luke's gospel, together with a few separate 
verses, and then prayed with her, that the Lord 
would vouchsafe to give unto her that mercy and 
grace of which she stood so evidently in need. 

I left her in what I hoped was a somewhat 
calmer state of mind. I trusted that there was 
the first dawning of a feeble hope within her ; and 
that it would of the Lord's goodness be hereafter 
abundantly brightened and increased. 

I have given this conversation at the more 
length, because I wished to show what was 
M2 



188 CONFEtSION. 

actually the state of her mind. I shall not in future 
transcribe what passed between us. It became, 
alas ! too frightful and horrible to be recorded. 
I was daily with her. I spent at first many hours 
in conversing with her and opening to her in the 
richest abundance, the full stores of gospel mercy, 
but it was all in vain. I will continue my account 
by giving some extracts from a few entries which 
I made from time to time after I had been with 
her. 

Feb. 28. — ' Poor Mrs. St. John seems worse 
to-day ; utterly unable to take the comfort of any 
.of the promises ; and less soothed than heretofore 
by the reading of the Scriptures and prayer. The 
struggle is so violent, that I tremble for her 
reason.' 

March 1. — 'Spent an hour at the Grange this 
morning. What a sight is a conscience writhing 
under the inflictions of an angry God ! What a 
place must hell be ! Oh ! that I could take some 
of my people, who are yet flattering themselves 
in their own eyes, and lulling conscience to sleep, 
to see what its awakening will be. Her thoughts 
run continually upon future punishment, and no- 
thing appears for a moment to relieve her. She 
said to me to-day, shuddering as she spoke it, 
* Do you think that the damned will be able to 
reproach and hate one another ? Shall we know 



CONFESSION. 1S9 

each other there ? Will there be a record there 
of the separate sins committed here V Poor crea- 
ture ! it seems as if upon her was indeed poured 
the full vial of the wrath of God.' 

March 6. — ' Having been absent since the pre- 
ceding date, I have not been able till to-day again 
to visit Mrs. St. John. Her state perfectly appals 
me ; and I find that her servants hardly dare to 
continue with her. She has never spoken before 
them of the subject which is torturing her mind ; 
but they can read plainly in her expression of 
agony, her agitated countenance, and straining 
eyes, that there is a dreadful struggle going 
on within. God grant that it may not end in 
madness.' 

March 7. — ' My visits to the Grange become 
every day more deeply painful. This morning 
poor Mrs. St. John has been sentencing herself, 
in the most awful terms, to everlasting destruc- 
tion. Her ears are stopped to the offers of the 
gospel. It is remarkable that she seems over- 
whelmed with horror at the thought of her having 
so long hardened her heart against God, even 
more than at the recollection of that murder, the 
guilt of which she charges so unceasingly upon 
her conscience. ' I might,' she said to-day, ' I 
might have been forgiven his death : yes, blood 
might have been forgiven me. But I have done 



140 CONFESSION. 

more than shed blood: I have hardened con- 
science until it cannot feel, I have deafened my 
ear until it cannot listen to the message of mercy ; 
I have resisted the Lord until he has refused 
longer to strive with me. Oh that those who are 
yet hardening their hearts might hear me ! Surely 
they could not go on heaping up this wrath unto 
themselves, if they could see, in the instance of 
another, how devouring are its flames ! Oh ! 
hell ! hell ! hell ! how shall I endure its torments, 
if I cannot bear these pangs which are but its 
forerunners !' 

' I could do nothing which seemed to quiet her 
toiday. That must be God's work ; and I can- 
not give up my hope that when he hath pleaded 
for a while longer in his jealousy with this broken 
heart, that he may turn again and refresh her. I 
thought it necessary to press her most strongly 
to put force upon herself in the presence of others. 
I trust that this sort of self-command may pre- 
serve awhile longer the empire of reason which 
now totters within her.' 

March 12. — ' For the last five days I have at- 
tended Mrs. St. John without observing any ma- 
terial difference in her miserable condition. She 
is undoubtedly sinking more and more fixedly into 
the gulf of despair. To-day for the fii-st time 
she manifested an evident repugnance to hear 



iHiife 



CONFESSION. 141 

me pray with her. She was like a person strug- 
gling to swallow, and prevented by violent con- 
vulsive spasms. She desired and yet could not 
endure that we should pray together. — How will 
this end ?' 

March 13. — ' The bad symptoms which I re- 
marked yesterday were much increased to-day. 
She would not hear of prayer, and would scarcely 
allow me to mention the name of the Saviour. I 
watched her closely, to see if there was any proof 
of her reason being impaired ; but I can see 
nothing else which suggests the idea of absolute 
insanity. She is still careful to abstain from speak- 
ing of her state of mind before her servants, attri- 
buting her distress to a nervous fever.' 

March 14. — ' Instead of welcoming me as usual 
with joy, poor Mrs. St. John seemed to regard 
my approach with absolute horror. The struggle 
of her feelings brought on a paroxysm of decided 
madness ; — without any regard as heretofore to 
the presence of the servants, she began at once 
to say — " What brings you here ? You know I 
cannot pray ! What has a murderess to do with 
prayer ? You know that I am hardened by God ! 
Though I make many prayers he would not hear. 
He has shut me up in despair, because I shut my 
ear to his voice. He has given me over to a re- 
probate mind, because I stifled conscience and hid 



142 CONFKSSIOX. 

my sin. What has a minister of Jesus Christ to 
do with a lost soul ?" This violence became so 
great as to alarm me for her personal safety, and 
finding that my presence tended to aggravate her 
disorder I left her room at once. I ordered her 
servants to watch by her, and let me know if any 
sudden emergency required additional assistance. 
After warning them not to be startled by any 
thing which her delirium might lead her to utter, 
and promising to send at once for the surgeon 
who had been attending her for some days, I left 
her under their charge.' 

, March 15. — ' All medical aid fails of adminis- 
tering any relief to poor Mrs. St. John. She has 
now had no lucid interval since last night ; her 
violence is so much increased that she must be 
confined.' 

March 22. — ' This morning my unhappy pa- 
tient was conveyed to a private asylum at D . 

She now raves incessantly ; continually accusing 
herself of having murdered her husband ; and 
still more loudly of having resisted an upbraiding 
conscience.' 

1 was in the habit of receiving periodical ac- 
counts after this of the state in which she conti- 
nued. They lasted for many months without the 
communication of any new fact of importance. 
At length I received one which informed me that 



CONFESSION. 143 

she had just had a lucid interval, which continued 
for some hours ; that in it she had manifested 
such extreme weakness of body, as soon as the 
inward violence of feeling had subsided, that it 
was thought impossible for her to bear up much 
longer under the exhaustion consequent upon her 
mental disorder. It was further said that during 
the few hours in which her reason was clear, she 
had appeared to be free from despair, though full 
of dejection. That she was much in prayer — 
repeated often over that gracious declaration, 
" the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all 
sin ;" and expressed an earnest desire to have an 
interview with me. That amongst other things 
she said to her attendant, ' If I do not see him, tell 
him that I am grateful to him for having been 
the instrument who awoke me from my sleep of 
sin.' It was added, that just when they were 
going to send for me, she suddenly relapsed into 
her former state of raving madness. 

The next account which I received was, that 
all was over ; her bodily strength had been evi- 
dently failing rapidly for the last week ; but to 
the very end the energy of her spirit kept her from 
sinking. She had no other lucid interval before 
her death. However, just before its convulsive 
struggles came on, the wildness of her counte- 
nance faded from her, and left a mild expression 



144 COM-ESSIO??. 

upon her features. She seemed to be endeavour, 
ing to clasp her hands in prayer, when she started 
— drew one long sobbing breath, and expired. 

Alas ! unhappy woman ! bitterly didst thou 
groan beneath the load of sin — heavily did its 
fetters press upon thee. We trust indeed that a 
gleam of heavenly light did struggle at last 
through the darkness of thy soul. Thine end 
was not altogether without hope. But whilst we 
acknowledge this with thankfulness of heart — 
yet is there not here written, as in characters of 
fire, a fearful warning against slumbering in sin ? 
•Is there not an awful testimony against living 
under the curse of unpardoned guilt? against 
stifling the voice of conscience, and continuing 
easy under the sense of unrepented^niquity 1 



THE HALL. 



'In heaven accounts of sighs are kept, 
Of every tear that's wept ; 
Saints feel the blessings back they bring, 
Swift as angehc wing: 
The humble what they beg obtain, 
And never sigh in vain.' 

Bishop Ken. 



THE HALL. 

CHAP. I. 

Few are the visitors who have explored the 

beauties of the pleasant village of B . Of all 

the innumerable tribes whom the summer sends 
forth to wander over the earth, countless as the 
gnats which people the moist air of a mild win- 
ter's day, or as the shoals of finny fry which the 
inexhaustible north produces ; few of them all 
have been seen within our confines. Though, in 
this erratic country, health and sickness, poverty 
and wealth, idleness and business, sorrow and 
pleasure, a wedding and a funeral, alike compel 
our mercurial countrymen to travel hither and 
thither, to hurry through this district, and hasten 
over that ; and generally to grumble through all, 
as if they were flying from companions who were 
continually proving that they could travel as 
quickly as themselves ; in spite of all these differ- 
ent causes, and various companies, rarely have 
we, quiet inhabitants of B — , seen the sketch 
book of the accomplished loiterer ; or figured in 



148 THE It ALL. 

the diary of the travelling author. And yet we 
have scenery to show, in which a Claude would 
not have despised to find the subject of his pencil, 
when the glowing sun streams in golden lustre 
over the waves of our rocky coast ; and we have 
legends and tales to tell which might perchance, 
even in their simple language, bring tears to many 
a gentle eye, or banish the colour from many a 
fair cheek. But we are in the neighbourhood of 
scenery familiar to every hunter after happiness ; 
and well it is for us that this draws away the 
stream of strangers with which we might other- 
wise be inundated. It was not, however, always 
thus with us. There was a time when the rat- 
tling wheels of the travelling carriage, and the 
cracking whip of the postboy wei'e no unusual 
sound in our village. Many were the tingling 
heads which could have testified of old to the vi- 
gilance with which the care of the veteran school- 
master repressed the rustic curiosity, which 
tempted his unruly charge to steal their eager 
peep through the rusted and dingy panes of the 
ancient window; frequent was the half-penny- 
worth of gingerbread which the old dame of our 
shop imparted to the active urchin who had open- 
ed gates for the generous travellers. Many were 
the carriages on which the aforesaid gates had 
closed midway, in the eager scuffle which ensued 



THE HALL. 149 

to catch the flying treasure : at M'hich joyful sight, 
the charge of the gate was altogether forgotten, 
and the young varlets, like slipped greyhounds, 
rushed pell-mell one over another, to secure the 
envied prize. At this time the family seat of the 
St. Aubyn's was the constant residence of its kind- 
hearted owner, and many were the friends who 
received his hearty welcome, and remained to be 
charmed by his courteous hospitality. It is a 
stately house even now, though silence has so 
long reigned in its halls ; though its court-yard is 
all grown over with grass ; (old Anthony kept it 
down as long as he was able ;) and though it has 
that cold and cheerless air which always belongs 
to a deserted place. It; must have been built 
about the time of Elizabeth. The old red brick 
could hardly have gained that tint of mellowed 
ripeness in fewer years ; and its massive towers, 
and deep stone muUions, its dark though spacious 
gothic windows, its heavy clusters of octagonal 
chimneys, all speak of the same venerable anti- 
quity. The oaks, too, which are studded around 
it, though a little vexed by the neighbourhood of 
the sea, and seeming less pleased with the ocean 
breeze than the sycamore and pinaster, which look 
as if they loved to combat with its blustering vio- 
lence, yet evidence by their gnarled stems and 
a-ifted arms thrown wide asunder, that the perish- 
N 2 . 



150 THE HALL. 

able hand which planted them has long since 
passed away, and mingled with the dust of the 
neighbouring church-yard, to nourish perhaps 
into stronger luxuriance their far spreading roots. 
But there are living things which you might al- 
most fancy had dwelt there as long as those old 
oaks which they inhabit. Often, as I have walked 
through that avenue in spring, watching the co- 
lonies of rooks which from time immemorial have 
dwelt and multiplied amongst its branches, have 
I noticed some staid and venerable senior of the 
company, of a grave and reverend aspect, who 
has lingered to croak forth his notes of inquiry 
and alarm, in the boughs which every younger 
bird has quitted, to soar in giddy circles far over- 
head ; and I have pictured to myself the history 
of that aged denizen of the grove, and fancied 
that his years, like those of the trees amongst 
which he dwelt, were mocking the short-lived 
span of the self conceited race beneath him. 

When first I came to reside at the Rectory, 
that house bore a far different aspect. In winter you 
could hardly reach its porch without hearing the 
merry laugh of light-hearted children as they 
chased their whirling hoops in emulous activity 
along its well kept walks ; or you met the sports, 
man going full of health and vigour to his day's 
occupation, or fell in with him as he traced his 



THE HALL. 151 

steps homeward after a hard day's walking 
amongst the extensive covers of St. Aubyn. Or 
if you went there when returning summer had 
spread her green mantle over nature, you would 
be almost certain to meet the Lady St. Aubyn on 
her way to the village, bearing some little com- 
fort to one of her poor neighbours ; or, it might 
be, tending with admiring pleasure, the roses and 
carnations which garnished her gay and fragrant 
parterre. Within the house, too, there was the 
same appearance of happy animation. In the 
well-stored library you might generally find Sir 
Henry, and often many a guest with him. It was 
the home of elegance and comfort : not one of 
those modern houses — which appear to be built 
upon the Chinese principle of exercising the skill 
of the architect, in crowding the greatest possible 
quantity of bricks upon the smallest possible ex- 
tent of ground : nor like a grand uncarpeted show 
mansion, where the weary eye is urged on by the 
unsparing housekeeper, through an endless enfi- 
lade of cheerless chambers, strung like beads one 
beyond another, and untenanted save by damp 
and rheumatism, and family portraits frowning 
from the walls like so many martyrs to dyspepsia 
— but roomy and yet cheerful, full of elegant fur- 
niture without being crowded by it, and amply 
supplied with the works of art and treasures of 



152 THE HALL. 

learning which had been successively collected 
by the various members of a long established and 
intellectual family. 

It is a sad sight in its present state, to one who 
remembers what it was of old ; and often as I 
have stood and mused in the deep shadows of its 
projecting corners, striving to learn the lesson of 
decay which it proclaims, have those magnificent 
declarations of the pr'ophets of Judah, which fore- 
told the ruin of the enemies of Zion, rushed un- 
bidden into my mind. " From generation to 
generation it shall lie waste ; none shall pass 
through it for ever and ever. But the cormorant 
and the bittern shall possess it ; the owl also and 
the raven shall dwell in it : and he shall stretch 
out upon it the line of confusion, and the stones of 
emptiness." 

At the time when I first became acquainted 
with the family, now about forty years ago, Sir 
Henry St. Aubyn was little turned of five-and- 
forty. His lady was full twenty years younger 
than himself. Their whole surviving family con- 
sisted of two sons within a year of the same age, 
though the light curling hair, transparent com- 
plexion, and laughing blue eye of Harry, made 
him appear several years younger than Arthur, 
whose dark complexion, and glossy raven hair, 
gave him the appearance of bearing more years 



THE HALL. 158 

than he had really seen. They were both lovely 
boys. In spite, too, of the apparent difference 
of feature, which struck the eye of the observer 
at the^ first glance, it was easy to trace, upon a 
close examination, their striking resemblance to 
each other. There was the same fulness of fore- 
head, the same polished chiselling of the lower 
part of the face, the same curl of the upper lip, 
the same quickness, and yet depth of expression 
in the whole countenance. There was the same 
difference and the same resemblance in their 
minds. They were both free from the infection 
of those blighting qualities, which often impair 
the freshness of youth. Full of affection and 
simplicity, ardent, generous, and high-spirited, it 
seemed as if the poisonous breath of earthly in- 
fluence had never yet been breathed over them. 
Yet it was easy to see even thus early in their 
lives, that if the younger boy had the liveliest 
spirit, the easiest-moved affections, and the gay- 
est tone of heart, that there was a still deeper 
current flowing through the soul of Arthur. 
They loved each other with the most perfect 
affection. They had never known what it was 
to be divided ; from the time when they had 
climbed together upon the same knee, they had 
never, in thought, in business, or in play, been 
for one day, or scarcelj'- one hour, separated 



154 THE nxLh. 

from each other. They were the pride and de- 
light of their father's heart. He had married 
rather late in life, and his affections had been long 
without any peculiar object to call forth their full 
powers ; but with the birth of his children, it 
seemed as if all these hidden energies had at 
once started into the fullest activity ; the chan- 
nels of feeling which had been dry from child- 
hood, were again full, even to overflowing. 
There had been much in his youthful years to 
repress the naturally strong flow of his affections. 
His mother had died whilst he was a mere boy, 
leaving, however, his young heart full of those 
impressions of her earnest gentle love, which 
returned upon him in many a cherished dream in 
after years. His father was a harsh, proud, im- 
practicable man ; stern, and repulsive to his son ; 
cold and harsh towards all others. The peas- 
antry of the village, who had been long accus- 
tomed to the kindness of their squires, hated and 
feared Sir John St. Aubyn. To such a pitch did 
this hatred extend, that as he grew older, the 
most improbable stories were commonly circula- 
ted concerning him. It became the universal 
impression of the village, that the appearance ol 
such a character upon such a stock, betokened 
its approaching extinction. This idea was fur. 
thered by his having only one son ; and by that 



THE HALL. 155 

son remaining still unmarried, though he had now 
reached the middle years of life. There was 
even handed down in the village a. rude stanza, 
which had the estimation of a prophecy, and 
which foretold in an ambiguous strain the ap- 
preaching extinction of his line. They were 
said to have been uttered by an old beldam of 
the village, whom Sir John had treated with a 
degree of harshness unusual even in him. The 
very oak under which she stood, when, as he 
rode away from her after an angry interview, 
she poured forth her sybilline invective, has often 
been pointed out to me ; as the words themselves 
have been frequently repeated under the breath, 
of the agitated speaker. They ran as follows— « 

' Through many a year this oak hath past : 
But the light' ning shall rift its head at last: 
Gladsome and gay is the summer's day; 
But the night shall come and its beauty decay, 
And the name of St. Aubyn shall pass away.' 

They obtained great currency as long as Sir 
Henry remained unmarried, but when he brought 
home with him his beautiful and gentle bride; 
when the harshness of his father's deeds had been 
almost blotted from the memory of the villagers 
by the shades of death, and the continual kind- 
ness of his son ; and when, above all, the ancient 
stock had again shot forth strong and vigorous 



156 THE HALL. 

shoots, and the nursery of St. Aubyn rung with 
the merry shouts of young voices, the obstinacy 
of rustic superstition was almost subdued, and 
the threatening stanza generally forgotten. Upon 
these two promising hopes of his family, the fa- 
ther's heart was fondly set ; nor was the affection 
of their mother less intense. Lady St. Aubyn's 
love for her boys appeared, indeed, to pass not 
merely the love of women, i but even the love of 
mothers. They were her two first-born children. 
Once more she had cradled in her arms the 
object of her tender love. Once more she had 
bent over her sleeping infant, and impressed a 
mother's kiss upon its fair and innocent brow. 
But not more than two years had passed over 
the head of her little Ellen, before she had been 
taken from her. The opening bud had been 
transplanted into a kindlier region, where its 
flowers should open in an atmosphere in which 
storms are never known. Lady St. Aubyri, 
with a bleeding heart, had resigned her treasure 
almost joyfully into the keeping of one whose 
love for her surpassed, as she well knew, even 
that which throbbed ui her own bosom. The 
gaiety of her natural spirit seemed mellowed 
rather than clouded over by a mother's sorrows ; 
there was nothing like repining in her heart. 
She would often speak to me ' of her sainted 



THE HALL. 157 

child,' and reckon upon her increased store in 
Paradise ; for though surrounded with every 
earthly comfort, " her treasure was in heaven." 
She was by no means a common character. 
Sprung from an ancient and honourable family, 
she appeared to have inherited all the refinement 
and true nobility of mind which had so long 
marked the house of which she was a daughter. 
She had seen little of what are commonly called 
the gaieties of life. Neither poverty or fashion 
had yet banished for the best part of every year 
the family of Clare from their princely country 
residence. Thus the youth of Lady St. Aubyn 
had been spent entirely in the country, in the 
elegant abundance of her father's house. She 
had lived for her family, whose delight she was ; 
and for her father's tenantry, who always found 
in her a ready and invaluable friend. She had 
been remarkably destitute of religious advan- 
tages. Yet, it seemed as if the first blessed influ- 
ences of the Holy Spirit, which had been impart- 
ed to her when she had been admitted into the 
fold of her Saviour, had never been extinguished. 
Sheltered from those chilling blasts of external 
temptation, under whose baneful power so many 
a promising bud is withered, she grew up to 
womanhood with the simplicity and afFectionate- 
ness of childhood untarnished. No rude hand 
O 



158 THE HALL. 

had swept off the fresh and beautiful bloom from 
the sheltered fruit. Casual circumstances had 
led to the intercourse which at this time took 
place between the family of Clare and Sir Henry 
St. Aubyn. He saw and admired the lovely 
character of Ellen ; and though so much older 
than herself, he gained her affections, which had 
never been trifled away in the frivolities of po- 
lished life. Regretted by many an honest heart, 
which still blessed her with its warmest and sin- 
cerest prayer, the Lady St. Aubyn had left her 
father's for her husband's home. It was there 
that my acquaintance with her began, and under 
the circumstances of affliction in which I found 
her when I first resided in the parish, it ripened 
into intimacy with unusual rapidity. The very 
first occasion upon which I had to read the fu- 
neral service over the open grave was, when the 
vault of the St. Aubyn family was opened to re- 
ceive the precious remains of the little Ellen. 
The first visits of sympathy which I paid, were 
to her bereaved mother. Never did I witness in 
any other instance so rapid, and yet so true a 
reception of the blessed doctrines of the gospel in 
all their fulness and freedom. Here was indeed 
a heart prepared by God himself for the good 
seed of the word. It was like sowing in the fer- 
tile soil of Egypt, as the waters of the Nile re- 



THE HALL. 159 

tire ; when vegetation seems to start rather than 
grow out of the prolific soil. It was what she 
wanted. Never, perhaps, was there a heart 
more pure from external evil — never one in 
which there were fewer natural impediments to 
rejoicing in the word of Christ. And now, too, 
that affliction had deeply touched her — now, that 
for the first time she had felt the laws of natural 
succession interrupted — now when a mother's 
first tears were falling upon the bier of her be- 
loved offspring, for whom she had borne so much, 
and whom she had cherished with a love which 
man cannot conceive ; now the sound of Christ's 
voice, which I was the happy means of bringing 
to her ears, sounded indeed to her as the sweet- 
est music. His gracious invitations, his offered 
love, the words which call unto him the weary 
and the heavy-laden, — these things refreshed her 
fainting spirit ; they were as the healing balm to 
the wounded sufferer ; as the drops that water the 
earth, to the parched and thirsty soil. She drank 
in the glad tidings ; she believed in the name of 
the Lord ; the Bible became her delight. It was 
with the deepest thankfulness that I watched her 
growth; in grace. There was in her that acute 
delicacy of conscience, and that lowly docility of 
mind which mark the character of those who 
have bowed to the yoke of Christ a neck which 



160 THE HAXL. 

has never been galled and stiffened by the gross- 

ness of a life of sin. I was often humbled by the 
affectionate gratitude which she evinced towards 
me, as the instrument which it had pleased the 
Almighty to employ in making known to her 
these unsearchable riches, of which her whole 
soul was full. But let it not be supposed that 
her family was neglected, or her habitual cheer- 
fulness discarded upon this alteration in her 
feelings. Far other was its effect upon her. In 
the Lady St. Aubyn, religion wore a lovely and 
inviting appearance. She could scarcely seem 
more free from selfishness than she had always 
been, but a difference there was — a deeper tone 
of feeling, an intense interest in the welfare of all 
around her, which gave a new dignity to her 
character, might be discerned by an accurate ob- 
server. The wound, too, which had been opened 
by the hand of death, was healed as it never 
could have been, but by the power of religion. 
To one so innocent, indeed (for if any one who 
wears our fallen nature, may by any appHcation 
of the word be called innocent, it was the Lady 
St. Aubyn) to one like her the grave could never 
wear that dark and entirely cheerless aspect with 
which it is invested to the worldly or profane. 
But those dreams of a future meeting ; those 
shadowy sketches which come like the innocent 



THK HALL. 161 

visions with which our souls conversed in infancy, 
have not substance in them. Far other was that 
calm bright light which the gospel of Jesus threw 
around her daughter's grave — very different from 
this was that " hope full of immortality" on which 
her soul now relied ; which enabled the most 
affectionate of mothers, even in the early hours 
of affliction, to "sorrow not as those without 
hope," for one who had slept in Jesus. She had 
now a new source of anxiety for all the objects 
of her affection. She watched every opening 
to lead her husband and her children into that 
path on which she had herself entered ; and 
which she had found to be indeed a way of plea- 
santness and peace. In the village, too, I had 
repeatedly cause to rejoice over the effects of her 
influence. At all times she had come as a wel- 
come visitor to alleviate sufferings and woe ; but 
now her presence often proved to be that of a 
good spirit calming the troubled mind ; and when 
I visited where she had lately knelt by the bed- 
side of sickness and pain, I could hardly forbear 
fancying that there were remaining traces of the 
recent steps of one not much less bright and 
blessed than an angel minister. But I am run- 
ning into the daily occurrences of after years. 

It was about two years after the death of EI- 
len that a distant cousin of the Lady St. Aubyn 
02 



162 THE HALL. 

came to pay her a long visit. She was a Widow 
— -a widow indeed : for like her friend, and nearly 
at the same time, she had been brought by afflic- 
tion into a full enjoyment of the peace which be- 
longs to the children of God. She was accom- 
panied by her only daughter, an engaging little 
girl, who had been born at nearly the same time 
with Ellen St. Aubyn. She soon therefore, occu- 
pied a large share in the affections of her mother's 
friend, and she returned them with all the fresh- 
ness of early love : next to her own mother, and 
not far behind her, stood the kind Lady St. Au- 
byn in the affections of the little Lucy. The 
visit of Mrs. Travers was perpetually prolonged. 
She had no peculiar claims to call her away ; 
and she was a welcome guest with the friend of 
her youth. It was indeed a happy/time which 
they spent together ; united as they .were in all 
their feelings and pursuits ; layiHg plans of good 
together, and with one accord entering upon their 
fulfilment. Never were my visits at the Hall 
more agreeable than during this season. Guests 
of the highest order of intellect were frequent 
visitors there; and in their company the Lady 
St. Aubyn imparted and received. the most, refined 
pleasure. But she was as cheerful and g^g. Ijatppy 
with her common country neighbours^ -ii^ma- 
tions of the feelings of uncongenial dulffess seemed 



THE HALL. 



168 



-conveyed by some secret channel to her percep- 
tions, as rapidly as if her keen eye had long been 
exercised in watching the habits of the animal. 

But I must not linger on these pleasant days 
upon which my mind loves to dwell. In one of 
their charitable excursions, Mrs. Travers caught 
a violent cold ; no anxiety was entertained upon 
her account, until it had for some weeks defied 
the usually-approved remedies. Medical aid was 
then called in. The report of the physician crea- 
ted rather than dispelled alarm. There was but 
too much reason for it. It frequently happens, 
that an unnsual delicacy of organization is con- 
nected with the exquisite sensibility of spirit, 
which was so remarkable in Mrs. Travers. With 
her it certainly was so. Life was already Strug- 
gling in her with a feeble flame ; and after a short 
attack of sharp illness, during which every grace 
which had been seen in health, shone out with in- 
creased lustre, as she drew nearer and nearer to 
the centre of light, she peacefully breathed her 
last withiher head pillowed upon the bosom of her 
friend. She left her orphan child to the guar- 
dianship-pf a second mother ; and deeply did the 
Lady St. Aubyn vow, that she would be indeed 
a mother to the 'unprotected little one, whose con- 
vulsive sobs she was endeavouring to assuage, as 
she folded her closely to her bosom. ' But shall 



164 THE HALL. 

I never see mamma again ? oh you won't, you 
won't take me from her ; mamma, mamma, why 
don't you answer me ? open your eyes once 
more — just once,' cried the poor child, in the 
pauses of a flood of tears. 

But those calm and beautiful eyes were now 
closed, not to open even to her child's cry of 
agony. With the fondest and most judicious 
tenderness, did the lady St. Aubyn still the sor- 
rows of that young heart, which seemed at first 
bursting with the grief to which she was so un- 
accustomed ; gently and by degrees did she carry 
the eyes of Lucy over the dark vale of death, 
to that bright land which her own faith beheld so 
clearly, and in a tone which had never deceived 
the child, she promised that she should see her 
mother again, and endeavoured to open to her 
youthful comprehension, the glories of that re- 
union. From that day forth, she was more 
closely grafted than ever into the affections of 
her adopted mother. For most truly had the 
little Lucy become unto her as a daughter. 

Time passed on, and from the eyes of Lucy 
every tear was dried away. She began to utter 
the name ' mamma,' when addressing the Lady 
St. A. without hesitation, and without a moment- 
ary tinge of sadness hanging over her happy 
countenance. She rejoiced in her two youthful 



THE HALL. 165 

companions : brothers as she termed them ; and 
knew no difference in her affections between the 
merry gaiety of Harry, or the quieter, but not 
less earnest love of Arthur. Oh ! blessed age 
of childhood, when the soul is fresh from the 
hands of its Creator ; when in the dewy bright- 
ness of the morning of life, the day is too short 
for perpetual enjoyment and innocent laughter, 
in which an angel would scarce think scorn of 
joining ; yet who has not seen these sunshine 
moments clouded over by those, who, in true 
wisdom, should rather seek to minister to the 
spotless enjoyment. There were no such mis- 
taken rules of education laid down in the nursery 
of St. Aubyn. The spring of the spirit was 
never broken there ; nor their youth instructed 
in the arts of fraud, by forcing them to throw 
round harmless pleasures the hedge of conceal, 
ment. Lady St. Aubyn was the companion of 
their sports, the sharer of their secrets, the aider 
of all their plans of pleasure, as well as the ten- 
der mother, pointing the young eye, and raising 
the untutored voice towards heaven. 

Her great endeavour was to win them into the 
ways of holiness, not to terrify them from what 
was wrong. It was their best reward, to hear 
her talk to them of heaven, to hear of that bright 
world of light, where all who loved the Saviour, 



166 THE HALL. 

lived in joy and blessedness ; to be told of him 
who had made them, and redeemed them, and 
who yearned over them with an exceeding great 
love. 

Years passed on, and no circumstances of great 
moment happened to the family. The change 
from childhood to boyhood was so gradual that it 
was scarcely noticed, until the necessity of an 
altered mode of education impressed it on the pa- 
rents of the young St. Aubyns. 

The earnest desire of their mother was, that 
they should be spared that early exposure to the 
world which must be the consequence of sending 
them to a public school. Does not nature teach us, 
she would say, not to transplant the tender plant 
too soon into the full exposure of the winds and 
storms ? Do not the very weaknesses of body, 
which need such continual care, teach us that the 
mind, too, is as yet unstrengthened by virtuous 
habits, and that it is unfitted to stand alone by its 
own firmness, against the shocks of promiscuous 
society. But all her reasoning failed to convince 
Sir Henry. He was indeed a most affectionate 
husband, a most careful and indulgent father. 
His disposition was naturally amiable. His early 
habits had taught him self-denial, and his polished 
manner was a faithful index of a refined mind. 
But with all these amiable and engaging qualities 



tftan 



THE HALL. 167 

in the composition of his character, there was 
evidently wanting that renewal unto righteous- 
ness which shone forth so eminently in his lady. 
Her prayers and endeavours on his behalf were 
never^ intermitted ; but though the partiality of 
her dutiful affection led her to hope that she could 
trace within him the beginnings of spiritual life, 
it was but too evident to other eyes that as yet at 
least they were entirely wanting. Thus, at this 
very time, all his calculations for the welfare of 
his sons were made, without his once taking into 
account their eternal interests. He was perfectly 
decided upon the place of their destination : and 
when once their mother knew that her husband's 
determination was complete, she acquiesced in it 
with her usual ready deference to his fixed opinion, 
and only sought to prepare her sons as far as lay 
within her power, for their approaching trial. 
Their anticipations of school marked strongly the 
difference of their character. The natural gaiety 
of Henry led him to look forward with unmixed 
gratification to the change which they were about 
to experience. He never anticipated sorrow — he 
always expected pleasure ; and if he thus escaped 
many hours of sadness, yet it often happened that 
he was altogether unprepared for difficulty or 
evil when it came ; and was therefore altogether 
unready to meet it. Thus in this very instance 



4 



168'*W THB HALL. 

he thought only of the delight of having so many- 
companions, of the bustle of the departure, of the 
joy of the return. Besides, as Arthur would be 
with him, he scarcely realized the thought of 
leaving home, so large a portion of it was to ac- 
company him still. With Arthur, on the con- 
trary, the expectation of leaving his father's house 
was a serious matter. He spoke little about it, 
but he thought and felt much. He had already 
gone over in his mind the pain of quitting the 
scenes of all his early happiness — of losing the 
gladdening sight of his mother's smile — of hear- 
,ing strange voices in the stead of the welcome 
sound of his father's call, or the innocent prattle 
of his darling Lucy. Harry loved all of these as 
much as he did, but he did not expect to lose 
them, when in truth they could not continue. 
Thus when the time of trial came, the difference 
between them was not lessened. While Harry 
sobbed upon his mother's neck, Arthur seemed 
less inclined to sadness than he had often been of 
late. The reality of parting, painful as it was, 
could not realize his previous anticipations. So, 
too, when the pain of parting was over, and the 
bustle of the journey had again stirred up the happy 
gaiety of Harry's natural disposition, it seemed 
again as if there was nothing in the world to sad- 
den him. His anxious expectations of the new 



THE HALL. 169 

world upon which he was about to enter, kept 
his mind fully upon the stretch ; and his sunshine 
fancy invested with the glow of pleasure all the 
indistinct featui'es of the distant prospect. 

* How many boys will there be, Arthur — I 
wonder whether many of them will be older than 
we are?' and then followed speculations iipon 
their proficiency in various favourite sports, and 
even in their studies too ; and it seemed wonder- 
ful to Arthur, as he, too, silently looked forward 
to their new life, that Harry's grief should have 
been so soon forgotten, and that he should now 
be able to build these castles of hope with such 
inexhaustible materials of unclouded gaiety. 

When, however, they reached the place of 
their destination, and the reality of school was 
presented to them, Harry could scarcely endure 
the sufferings which were hardly noticed by his 
brother. The rudeness of some — the unkindness 
of others — the estrangedness of all — the new and 
entire want of all those demonstrations of affec- 
tion with which the very atmosphere of St. Au- 
byn now appeared to have been loaded ; the lone- 
liness of a crowd of strangers ; all these things 
pressed so painfully upon the sensitive spirit of 
the light-hearted boy, that he seemed to shrink 
like the long-cherished exotic from the blast of 
winter ; and had not his brother been there, firm, 
P 



170 THE HALL. 

independent, and full of resources for both of 
them, he would hardly have borne his first trans- 
planting from the shelter of home to the exposure 
of a public school. In time, however, all these 
feelings were overcome ; and the hearty laugh 
of the lately miserable boy testified that his lively 
spirit had again adapted itself to his altered cir- 
cumstances. As he grew up, this peculiarity of 
disposition was in some degree mitigated, but still 
it remained sufficiently apparent to form the 
ground of much anxiety to his clear-sighted mo- 
ther. It was the subject of many a conversation 
between her and myself. For in religious mat- 
ters the same character was evident. His feel- 
ings were readily excited, and under their con- 
troul he might have been, from time to time, 
hurried even to extravagance of self-devotion. 
But it was an uncalculating unsteady tumult of 
sensations, which gave but little promise of subsi- 
ding into the regular flow of true devotedness of 
heart to God. He seemed, perhaps, one day to 
have made extraordinary progress in his course, 
but sad experience had taught me to feel no assur- 
ance that a hurricane from the opposite quarter of 
the heavens might not as suddenly drive his un- 
governed vessel even further back than it had 
been before. I had far more hope for his brother. 
His temptations were all of a different nature. 



L 



THE HALL. 171 

Slow to express his deepest feelings, yet evidenc- 
ing to an observant eye that there were passions 
in his soul of even stronger power than those 
which exerted such evident controul over Harry ; 
he could not turn out eventually an ordinary cha- 
racter. There were, it was plain, many strivings 
of the blessed Spirit in his soul, but we could not 
as yet feel any confident hope that the power of 
this world was subdued within him. He might 
yet give himself entirely to any worldly occupa- 
tion ; and whether it were ambition or any lighter 
passion, it was evident that his digression from 
the truth would, if once begun, be even greater 
than that of his more mutable brother. 

Their conduct at school was upon the whole 
very satisfactory. Their talents were of a high 
order, and their increasing developement showed 
that they were not left unemployed. Arthur was 
the more habitually studious ; but Harry carried 
difficulties by assault, which his brother over- 
came by more regularity of attack. It would 
be difficult to say which was the most popular 
amongst his schoolfellows. High spirits, fine 
feelings, perfect good temper, and a remarkable 
freedom from selfishness, secured to them the af- 
fections of all around them. Perhaps Arthur 
was the most deeply, and Harry the most univer- 
sally beloved. Their mutual affection was un- 



172 THE MALL. 

equalled. It seemed as if they had every feeling 
in conamon ; and the careful watchfulness of Ar- 
thur's love was repaid by the enthusiastic admi- 
ration of his brother. Many were the occasions 
on which this fore-thought was the means of 
saving his more light-minded brother from the 
difficulties in which he would have involved him- 
self. On one occasion the spirit of insubordina- 
tion had spread pretty generally through the 
ranks of the young republic. An open act of 
rebellion was planned ; the eyes of all the ring- 
leaders were fixed upon the St. Aubyns. If they 
could be won over, the success of the plot was 
deemed certain. Their standing in the school, 
their talents and their character, would decide 
so many waverers, and give to the whole band of 
conspirators such an appearance of importance, 
that they promised themselves the most unbound- 
ed victory over their reluctant masters. They 
dared not, however, propose the plan to Arthur. 
There was a keen-sightedness about him, from 
which they involuntarily shrank. With Harry 
there was less difficulty. Some of his chief fa- 
vourites were employed to gain him to their views. 
Stories of oppression were magnified ; his pity 
for the younger lads who were represented as its 
victims was easily excited. The plan was gra- 
dually opened to him ; its certain success predict- 



THE HALL. 173 

ed ; its glorious result enforced. All Harry's 
feelings were excited ; and he was upon the very 
point of pledging himself to the insurgent party, 
when he recollected that he had not yet consulted 
Arthur, and that he could not act in it without 
him. It was in vain to endeavour to get him to 
promise. 

' Oh ! but Arthur will be afraid of joining 
in it.' 

' Arthur afraid ! — when was he ever afraid of 
any thing V 

' Why should you ask him before you promise?' 

' I will go this minute and tell him every thing, 
and see if he does not soon come back with me.' 

But when Arthur heard it all from his impetu- 
ous brother, he did not fire up as Harry had ex- 
pected. So far from it, he had something to 
answer to every thing which had wrought upon 
the feelings of the less reflecting boy. The tales 
of oppression were so exaggerated as to be un- 
true ; the motives which led the discontented to 
insubordination were altogether unworthy ; the 
failure of the plan was certain ; disgrace must 
overtake its actors ; ' and how,' said Arthur, 
' how could you bear to come home to St. Aubyn, 
as we have never yet returned, with shame in- 
stead of joy in our hearts ?' 

Harry was soon convinced, but, though Arthur 
P2 



174 THE HALL. 

did return with him, and endeavour to persuade 
the others to relinquish their rash attempt, he was 
not so successful there. Harry found it rather 
difficult to bear the taunts to which his own vola- 
tility exposed him; he was however firm, for 
Arthur was with him to give him confidence. 
The rebellion was not prevented by this failure ; 
but as Arthur had foreseen, it was immediately 
crushed, and brought disgrace and punishment 
upon all concerned in it, and a shameful expulsion 
upon all who had joined in it from that class in 
the school which was occupied by Harry St. 
, Aubyn. His gratitude to his brother was un- 
bounded ; and the delight of his next return home 
was magnified almost to extacy by the sense of 
what he had escaped. Notwithstanding the well- 
founded anxiety of the Lady St. Aubyn, great 
was her joy at every return of her sons, to find 
them so entirely free from many evils which her 
jealous affection had led her to fear for them. 

They were now growing out of boyhood, but 
the simplicity of their tastes, and their increased 
affection for St. Aubyn, if it was indeed capable 
of increase, proved that they were free from that 
touch of vice which so certainly debases and viti- 
ates the simplicity of domestic affection. They 
still returned to their father's company with the 
same gleeful hilarity aa they had done when the 



TITE HALL. 175 

two new ponies had been first provided for his 
youthful comrades. They still loved that full 
famihar confidence with herself which it was 
their mother's delight to encourage, as much as 
when they had nothing more to entrust to her af- 
fection than the hopes and anxieties and joys of 
the merest boyhood. They both of them met 
Lucy Travers with the same open-hearted love 
with which they had greeted her when the affec- 
tion of childhood had united them together. They 
■set out as eagerly to examine the progress of a 
new plantation, to enjoy some beloved haunt of 
childhood, to see some improvement in the 
grounds, or to visit some old favourites amongst 
the rejoicing villagers, as they had done at their 
first return from school to see the flowers in their 
little gardens which Lucy had been keeping for 
them, to feed her tame pigeons, or to sup on the 
fresh-gathered strawberries and delicious cream, 
which it was the joy of Mrs. White's heart to 
lavish upon the ' dear children,' whom she had 
attended of old in the nursery of St. Aubyn. 

But though she was truly thankful for this un- 
doubted evidence of their comparative innocence, 
she was not free from the full weight of a mother's 
anxiety. In the character of each of the two 
fine-spirited young men whom every one admired 
and loved, she saw infinite capabilities of good or 



176 THB HALL. 

evil ; and how could she but watch over them 
with the deepest and overwhelming solicitude. 
There was one plan which she had long cherish, 
ed. It had been even from the infancy of Lucy 
Travers, the dream of promise which the Lady 
St. Aubyn indulged, that she should one day see 
her wedded to her own Arthur ; and as years 
passed on, and Lucy gathered with them fresh 
and increasing loveliness ; and as her character 
opened continually, and grew in every feature 
which could endear her to her adopted mother, 
it became more and more that mother's earnest 
. wish to possess a still truer title to that long-ac- 
customed name. Often did she speak to me upon 
the subject, and express an earnest hope that she 
was not fixing her heart with sinful fondness upon 
this darling scheme. She prayed that it might 
so be ordered, if her heavenly Father saw that it 
were fitting, but she failed not to ask for grace to 
submit her will to His, whatever he saw fit to 
appoint. 

It was not till the two brothers had spent their 
first year at the university, that any thing passed 
upon the subject, between the Lady St. Aubyn 
and her son. They had been spending the first 
part of the long vacation at home, and were about 
to join a reading party in a distant part of the 
country,- when their departure was delayed by 



L^ 



M 



THE HALL. 177 

the illness of their mother. It rapidly increased, 
and in a very short time threatened a fatal termi- 
nation. Harry's watch by his mother's sick bed, 
had been relieved by Lucy, and it was the turn 
of Arthur to attend upon her. As he entered the 
room, with the softened tread which speaks at 
once of sickness and sorrow to the soul of those 
who hear it, he heard the faint tones of his mo- 
ther's voice, endeavouring to comfort Lucy, who 
was evidently stifling sobs which almost broke 
her heart. ' My Lucy, it will not bring our part- 
ing nearer, to speak of what may happen. You 
see how weak I am already grown, and you 
heard the opinion which Dr. A. yesterday gave 
us. I would have you prepared, my love. Think 
then of what I have said to you, and write to 
your aunt upon the subject ; and now dear girl 
kiss me, for I am faint with speaking.' 

As Arthur came to the side of his mother's bed, 
he thought that he had never before admired the 
beauty of Lucy Travers as it deserved to be ad- 
mired. Her face was flushed with agitation, 
while a big tear was rising under the long black 
lashes which fringed each of her bright and beau- 
tiful eyes. Her hair had fallen over her face, as 
she stooped over the Lady St. Aubyn, to fan 
her faint and languid forehead. She did not no- 
tice Arthur till he stood beside her, and it was 



178 THB HALL. 

some minutes before his mother was sufficiently 
restored, to be left entirely to his care. She sunk, 
however, into sleep, and Lucy left the room. 
Arthur seated himself in the chair beside his 
mother's bed, and as he gazed upon her pale 
countenance, and listened to her laborious breath, 
ing, he felt his heart swelling beyond the power 
of that customary controul which he was wont to 
exert over it. Not one of the few words which 
he had overheard, was without its full meaning to 
him, and the thought of that happy place deserted 
of its two endearments, without Lucy or his 
mother, completely overcame him. His face was 
supported on his hand as he mused upon the 
future, which was gathering in thick shades 
around him. While he was sitting in this turmoil 
of imagination, his mother had awoke refreshed 
by her short sleep, and was anxiously watching 
the workings of her son's countenance. The 
whisper of his name recalled him at once to self- 
possession, but the Lady St. Aubyn had seen too 
much to be able to remain silent. She drew him 
into conversation. There was no concealment 
about him, though there was much of that species 
of reserve which is the necessary consequence of 
deep internal feelings ; she soon learned that he 
had overheard the close of her last conversation, 
and it was not very long before she had gathered 



THE HAIL. 179 

from him too, what his constant habit of self-re- 
flection had already taught him, that he loved 
Lucy Travers with a passionate fondness. The 
Lady St. Aubyn doubted not of the affection of 
her adopted daughter for him. She had seen 
many things in the course of her constant inter- 
course with Lucy, which persuaded her, that 
though unsuspected by herself, her heart was 
given up to Arthur, and this had added not a lit- 
tle to the anxiety which she had long felt concern- 
ing the matter. He was not so ready to believe 
it, but after some time spent in conversation with 
his mother, and a full feeling of the necessity of 
his forcing himself to make the effort, he sought 
out Lucy, to learn whether her own lips confirmed 
his mother's opinion. It w,as not many hours af- 
terwards before the Lady St. Aubyn joined their 
hands together, and with a short but fervent 
prayer for the happiness of two almost equally 
beloved by her, gave them her fondest blessing. 
It had seemed in the morning, as if she had not 
strength remaining for any such exertion ; yet it 
Was difficult to believe, when I saw her in the 
evening, and the fatigue necessarily consequent 
upon such excitement was a little passed, that she 
had not really rallied. There was an expression 
of calm thankfulness settled upon her features, 
which at once told me how entirely she had re- 



180 THE HALL. 

cognized in this, as in every other circumstance, 
the hand of a Heavenly Father — and this indeed 
was the temper of her mind : she believed that 
her death was near at hand, and she saw a new 
instance of the goodness which had long followed 
her, in the removal of this weight of anxiety from 
her spirits. In one thing, however, she was mis- 
taken ; she was not §o near her eternal reward 
as she believed herself to be. From this very 
time the violence of the attack diminished, and 
after a long and weakening continuance of abated 
symptoms she was restored to the love and thank- 
ful rejoicings of her family. When she watched 
Lucy and her son sitting side by side, or walking 
together as of old, but with new, and tenderer, 
and more sacred sympathy than ever, she felt ; 
that her sickness with all its pains, had been a , 
cheap purchase for the happiness she x'eaped from 1 
their engagement. 

But though Lady St. Aubyn's health was suf- i 
ficiently restored to allow her sons to leave home 
with comfort, yet I plainly saw that it had left 
her with a shattered constitution. The flame in- 
deed had burnt up again, when it seemed about 
to be extinguished ; perhaps it was as bright as 
ever, but there was something about it which im- 
pressed me with the belief that it would be short- 
lived. My fears were too soon verified. It was 



THE HALL. 181 

not long before a new and more dangerous return 
of the same disorder gathered the family of Lady 
St. Aubyn around her sick bed. Her illness was 
pain&l in the extreme, and it was evidently ra- 
pidlybreaking down her little remaining strength. 
There was, however, time enough given to her to 
show the blessed triumph of grace, over pain and 
approaching dissolution. She felt the rock that 
was under her, and with a calm and settled hope 
she entered upon the first shades of the dark val- 
ley of the shadow of death. Many were her 
prayers for those she left behind, and earnest the 
entreaties she addressed to them, to fix their hope 
where her's was established, so that even this 
hour could not remove it. Again she blessed her 
son and daughter, and expressed her joyful ap- 
probation of their union; but even then did she 
warn them, never in their brightest moments, to 
forget that the hour must come, when every 
earthly joy, even the purest earthly affection, 
would be insufficient for the soul's support ; and 
while she rejoiced in their mutual love, she warn- 
ed them of the curses of idolatry. Her end was 
perfect peace. Even those around her bed, hardly 
knew when she breathed her last ; so peacefully 
did she resign her spirit into the keeping of her 
God. The tempest of Harry's grief, when the 
full sense of his loss burst upon him, was perfectly 
Q 



182 THE HALL. 

frightful. He had never ceased to believe that 
she would be again restored to health ; and the 
reality, therefore, of her being gone for ever 
from him here, broke upon him like a peal of 
thunder. In vain did Lucy and his brother en- 
deavour to soothe and quiet him. His soul refused 
comfort. He clung to the lifeless form of her whom 
he had so long and so fondly loved. At last I 
myself persuaded him to quit the chamber, and 
left him, as I hoped, somewhat calmer in his own 
room ; but as soon as he was alone, grief again 
overmastered him, and he rushed in an agony of 
sorrow into his mother's room, and casting him- 
self by the side of the bed, with his arms over her 
lifeless body, sobbed like a child. It was long 
before he was in any degree quieted, and when, 
with all the soothing and holy rites of Christian 
burial, we had just deposited her earthly remains 
beside those of her infant daughter, he seemed 
completely maddened by the force with which he 
had repressed his feelings, and flinging himself 
upon the coffin, he clung passionately to it, and 
was at last removed from it by force, and carried 
to his room, whicli he did not leave again for 
many weeks : a violent attack of fever followed 
this intense excitement, and it was long before he 
was fully convalescent. 

The house of St. Aubyn could never be again 



THE HALL. 183 

to me, what it had used to be. Yet after a while, 
happiness seemed again to have settled there. 
Sir Henry was arrived at that age, when the 
wounds of the affections are never deep enough 
to refuse to be healed. Arthur could not but be 
happy with Lucy Travers at his side ; and even 
the spring of Harry's spirits seemed fully restored ; 
and often when I have seen the three together, I 
have asked myself, whether they could be those 
whom I so well remembered to have seen struggle 
with such overpowering sorrow. The time of 
their leaving the university was come, and Arthur 
had begun to press Lucy to fix the time when his 
long-cherished hopes should be fulfilled. 



CHAP. IL 

It had been my constant endeavour to fix upon 
the family of St. Aubyn, the impressions of good, 
which the striking scene of holy resignation we 
had all witnessed, had not failed to excite. In 
the character of Lucy's religious feelings, I trust- 
ed that there was much evidence of decided im- 
provement. In Arthur, too, there appeared to be 
an increased seriousness of mind. But Harry 



184 THK HALL. 

exhibited no trace of those sensations which had 
excited for the time such frightful power over his 
whole nature. The hurricane had swept over the 
landscape ; it had uprooted every thing before, 
and left desolation behind it ; but the scene weis 
clothed again with its former beauty, and not a 
mark of the ravage of the tempest lingered upon 
the face of nature. It had marred the form of 
buildings which had defied its full power; but 
these still retained some evidence of its violence. 
The willow had yielded even to the ground, but 
it had regained its former posture. The firmer 
trees of the forest resisted its first fury, but bore 
still the impress of its might. Harry was just 
what he had been before, as high-spirited, as 
hopeful, as fearless of evil, and also as ill-prepared 
to meet it. 

After due delays and decent procrastinations, 
— after calling in the matronly countenance of 
an almost unknown aunt, her only surviving re- 
lative, a widowed sister of her father's, who had 
recently returned from India, the different prepa- 
rations were all completed, and the day named 
for the marriage of Lucy Travers to the heir of 
the house of St. Aubyn. Universal was the joy 
demonstrated upon this occasion. The merits of 
Lucy were so highly appreciated both in the fa- 
mily of St. Aubyn and throughout the whole 



THE HALL. 185 

village of B — — , that many a heart rejoiced in 
the prospect of her settled continuance amongst 
them. Indeed the pleasure which it excited 
seemed to be universal. Sir Harry was as fond 
a father to the bride, as to those whom by a more 
proper title he called his children. Arthur's joy 
was deep and earnest, and Harry was full of his 
usual animated spirits, and rejoicing expectations. 
Yet as the time drew near for the celebration of 
the wedding, I could not help perceiving an unu- 
sual thoughlfulness in Arthur's manner. It seemed 
as if he had something pressing upon his mind, 
and once or twice I thought that he was forcing 
himself to enter upon the subject with me ; but 
either he could not bring himself to begin, or 
something interrupted us, and diverted his atten- 
tion. It was the very day before that which was 
fixed for the wedding, on which he first broke 
through his reluctance to enter upon the subject. 
< I have known too long, my dear Sir, your kind- 
ness, and felt too deeply your affection in many 
trying situations, to have a doubt of your efficient 
friendship now.' I assured him of my desire to 
assist him. ' You know,' he continued, « some- 
thing of Harry's character. You know some- 
thing too of our affection for each other. It is 
concerning him that I wish to speak to you ; and 
when you hear what it is that I have to say, you 
Q2 



186 Tlin HALL. 

will not be surprised at the length of time through 
which I have been struggling to force myself to 
openness with you. I am convinced that he loves 
Lucy, that he loves her in his own way as fondly 
as I do. She has not a conception of it. For 
quick sighted as women are to affection, here 
she thinks that it is nothing more than the love of 
a brother. The very same cause has hidden 
from him the true state^of his affections ; and he 
is as yet entirely ignorant of what he is about to 
endure. But the truth has not escaped my ob- 
servation, and I dread the struggle of his feelings 
when first he knows it. You remember his vio- 
lence once before. Picture to yourself what will 
be his feelings when Lucy is gone — when he 
knows that she is another's wife — when he is left 
at St. Aubyn alone, with not even a brother's 
arm to lean upon. Oh ! Sir, I have seen Harry 
strangely wrought upon by small events ; I have 
watched the suddenness, and the awfulness of the 
change which passes over his mind, and I tremble 
for the result. Our whole souls are now united, 
and mine bleeds for him. If I were the cause of 
bringing any evil upon him, I could not survive 
the bitterness with which it would overflow my 
soul. Day after day have I thought over this 
matter, brooded over it secretly, and never seen 
any escape. To postpone our marriage, would 



THE HALL. tST 

be but to strengthen the chains against which he 
will have to struggle, to narrow the cell against 
the walls of which I fear his convulsive bursts 
may dash his head. 

Haw did I admire the noble affection, the man- 
ly forethought which that morning's conversation 
exhibited in Arthur St. Aubyn. His fondness for 
his brother was gentle as woman's love. He had 
ever been used to think for him — in childhood, at 
school, at college ; in the exuberance of joy, or 
in the depression of sorrow, it was upon his arm 
that his brother had leaned, and had never failed 
to find support : and now when most he needed 
its assistance, was it to be suddenly removed ; 
nay, was it, as it were, to be uphfted to strike the 
very blow under which that brother would writhe 
in unsupported agony. There was no satisfactory 
solution for the difficulty ; and while admiring the 
courageous and disinterested affection of the young 
man, I could not but be deeply grieved to per- 
ceive how bitter a dash of sorrow was hereby 
thrown into his cup of happiness. All that he 
could suggest, (and that I readily promised) was, 
that I should keep as much as possible with Har- 
ry, when left by Arthur and his bride, that I 
should watch him carefully, and be prepared to 
meet whatever circumstances might hereafter 
arise. We parted, not without an earnest prayer 



188 THE HALL. 

for strength for him, to whom we deemed it so 
essential, and for a blessing upon the approaching 
fulfilment of his beloved mother's perhaps too 
anxious wishes. 

The wedding morning was what such a day 
should be ; all nature seemed to have put on her 
gayest and most rejoicing aspect — birds and in- 
sects, trees and flowers, were all animated with 
unusual life, or invested with unwonted beauty. 
Many was the hearty prayer of the villagers who 
thronged the church on that happy morning. 
Many the chaplet of flowers, and the wishes of 
happiness which were showered upon the bride 
and bridegroom as they passed under the church 
tower, which was ringing forth its loud and merry 
joy to the echoes of St. Aubyn ; and rousing the 
noisy inhabitants of the ancient oaks, to emulous 
vociferation. At mid-day the band of tenantry 
crowded the hospitable table of the Hall, and 
taking example from its honoured lord, rejoiced 
with all their hearts upon this day of merriment. 
It was a holiday through the village, cUid it closed 
as it had begun, in cheerfulness. So pleasant an 
aspect did all things wear, that though the eve- 
ning sky was blackened by a thunder-storm, — 
and though "the fated oak" as it had been 
named of old, was struck and blasted by the light- 
ening, there was scarcely one to be found through- 



THE HALL. 189 

out the whole village whose superstition was proof 
against the rejoicing appearance of the times ; or 
who from such a beginning, could augur any thing 
of ill to the young representatives of the St. Au- 
byn family. But amidst this universal scene of 
gaiety and happiness, there were two hearts full 
of anxiety. Even his own rejoicing exaltation 
could not banish from Arthur's mind his gloomy 
and increasing apprehensions. His last words to 
me, breathed in an under tone before he drove off 
from the Hall, were, 'You will not forget my 
brother,' and they were accompanied with an 
earnest grasp of the hand, which spoke of pow- 
erful, though repressed agitation. With an anx- 
ious heart I set about the fuljfilment of my promise. 
For a while the busy merriment of Harry's soul 
seemed unabated. The villagers were to be en- 
tertained ; the cricket matches arranged ; and 
Harry was full of occupation, and full apparently 
of glee. Yet, even then I began to be alarmed, 
for I thought I could perceive an unnatural ac- 
tivity taking the place of his ordinary gaiety — it 
was beginning to wear the appearance of effort, 
as if he himself dreaded its intermission — he 
seemed to soar on, and on, to a giddier height, 
but not, I thought, so much from native strength 
of wing as from the desperate energy of a 
wounded spirit. There was also at times a pecu- 



190 THE HAM,. / 

liar wildness about his eyes ; a sort of uneasy 
glare, as if he knew not where to fix them. I 
had peculiarly noticed this same expression of 
countenance when I had attended him after his 
mother's death. It had then made me fear for the 
continuance of his reason, and it was too deeply 
imprinted upon my recollection to be ever after- 
wards effaced. As the evening closed, and the 
guests one by one drove off, as the sounds of song 
and music ceased ; and the silence of the home 
party was contrasted with the buzz of voices and 
gaiety of appearance with which the room had 
been recently animated, the restless uneasiness of 
Harry's manner s6emed rapidly to increase. I 
readily acquiesced in Sir Henry's proposal that I 
should defer my return home till the moi-ning ; 
and as he retired early, I was soon left alone with 
Harry. I endeavoured to engage him in con- 
versation, but in spite of all my efforts it visi- 
bly flagged. He was perpetually absent ; and 
seemed to start when I spoke to him again, as if 
he were roused from a painful dream. Once, 
almost in hopelessness, I turned the conversation 
to the bridal pair — he seemed quite to wince un- 
der the pain of being compelled to speak of them 
— and I sawithat it was better to forbear that sub- 
ject. At last though sorely unwilling to part 
from him, and leave him to himself, I was com- 



THE HALL. 191 

pelled to do so. There was no excuse for keep- 
ing him up any longer, and with a heavy heart I 
withdrew to my own room to pray for the un- 
happy object of my soUcitude. ' Alas !' I said to 
myselff ' how poor a thing is the fairest super- 
structure when the foundation is unstable ? How 
may talents, and acquirements, and sensibility, 
and affection, and all that is lovely in man, how 
may it all fail in the day of trial, if there be not 
/ a true fear of God upon which all these are 
founded. The blanched and filling sails, whose 
beauty we admire, are the very things which 
make the storm destructive to the unballasted 
vessel.' I knew not then how soon or how fa- 
tally my anticipations of evil were about to be 
fulfilled. 

Anxiety concerning Harry made me an early 
riser upon the morning of the day which followed 
the wedding. I had scarcely entered the saloon 
before I met old Anthony White, who with a 
mournful air told me that Mr. Harry was very ill. 
* I suppose he was overdone yesterday, sir, for 
some of our people who sleep near his room, say 
that he passed a very rough night ; they heard 
him walking up and down his room, and talking 
to himself just as he used to do after our good 
mistress died. They were thinking of getting up 
and going to him, but just then he seemed quiet 



192 THE HALL. 

and they hoped he was gone to bed ; and so after 
listening a while longer they fell asleep. But 
early this morning they were woke up by him 
again ; and at last they called me up, and I made 
bold to go into his room. He had not been in 
bed once all night, sir, and I do not think he very 
well kncAv what he was about. His eyes were so 
red, and glared so, and at first he was quite angry 
with me for coming info his room. So I slipped 
out, sir, and sent John off for the doctor ; he has 
been here about half an hour, and has not left 
him yet.' 

I waited with increased alarm to see the medi- 
cal man, and receive his report. He soon left 
the chamber of the sick man. He had found him 
in a high fever, with a determination of blood to 
the head, which would have threatened dangerous 
results if it had not been taken in such good time. 
' He is now much quieter : has promised me to 
go immediately to bed, for which Anthony is 
helping to prepare him, and must be kept per- 
fectly quiet. It is the effect, I have no doubt,' 
he continued, ' of yesterday's excitement ; how 
strange it is that joy and sorrow should produce 
the same effects ; there are much the same symp- 
toms in this case as Mr. St. Aubyn experienced 
after the death of his mother.' 

I did not think it necessary to undeceive 



THE HALL. 193 

Mr. Walters as to the cause of Harry's present at- 
tack, though I had little doubt that it was not to 
joy to which it ought to be attributed. We sat 
down to a melancholy breakfast. Sir Henry had 
not seen his son, as he had just been left asleep, 
and to keep him perfectly quiet was known to be 
of the very first moment. His sleep, however, 
was very short, breakfast was scarcely over 
when old Anthony called me out as if on business 
of my own, but to tell me, in truth, that he was 
alarmed about Mr. Harry. He had woke up 
from sleep, and seemed to be again wandering in 
his head ; he talked incessantly, and it was diffi- 
cult to catch the meaning of any thing that he 
said. I went immediately to his room, and seated 
myself beside him. He did not know me, but 
taking me for his brother, addressed me with 
great joy. — ' I am sb glad to see you back again, 
Arthur ; I had such a night last night, I thought 
that you had left me ; and my mother, she was 
gone too ; and Lucy, Lucy, was gone — gone — 
gone, never to come back again.' — He stopped 
for a moment suddenly, and staring in my face, 
with a wild unmeaning sort of gaze, he said, 
' Brother, where is Lucy ? Why does not she 
come ? Have you killed her ? Why do they 
say I shall never see her again ? Have not we 
both loved her, ever since we could speak ? O 
R 



194 THE HALL. 

Arthur, Arthur, is it come to this !' He continued 
talking incessantly in something of this strain, 
but so quickly and incoherently, that it was diffi- 
cult to understand him. For this I was very 
thankful ; as I trusted that it would prevent the 
real cause of his distress becoming generally 
known. The medical man who had been sent 
for on the first return of alarming symptoms was 
soon with us, and evidently took an apprehensive 
view of the case. There was every appearance 
of a violent access of brain fever, and the ex- 
treme irritability of system which every symptom 
manifested rendered its issue very doubtful. I 
had promised to send Arthur an account by that 
day's post of his brother's state, but fearing that 
the ordinary conveyance might be too slow, an 
express was sent off to hurry the mournful re- 
turn of those who had so lately quitted us with 
every mark of joy. The next morning brought 
them home ; and Arthur flew at once to his bro- 
ther's room. He was not recognized by Harry. 
In vain did he speak to him, and endeavour by 
that well known voice to call up the associations 
of childhood, and charm to rest the storms which 
were sweeping over his soul. The murmured 
complaints, the hurried questions of his brother 
shewed him with painful certainty upon what his 
mind was morbidly brooding. ' Gone ! she is 



THIS HALL. 195 

gone forever!' 'Gone to the grave — gone. to 
my mother — no, no ! Arthur took her — Arthur ! 
Arthur !' and then after strainuig his eyes and 
seeming to dilate every^muscle of his fine coun- 
tenance, in a speechless agony of intense excite, 
ment, he would sink feebly back upon the pillow, 
whence nothing couldjaise him until his strength, 
and with it his violence, seemed to be recruited 
for fresh exertion. 

Arthur determined to try in one of these 
pauses what would be the effect of introducing 
Lucy into his presence. As we anxiously 
watched his countenance, we indulged a mo- 
ment's hope that her appearance was likely to 
exercise a beneficial influence over him. He 
looked eagerly at her — ^then his expression 
changed to one of something very like compo- 
sure ; but it was quickly followed by the languor 
which it had for an instant removed, and then his 
eye followed her drowsily about the room, with- 
out recognition and without meaning. 

Oh ! with what fearful suddenness had the house 
of joy been turned into the house of weeping! 
Poor Sir Henry was bowed to the very earth, 
Lucy was utterly overwhelmed, and Arthur's 
heart was ready to burst. It was impossible to 
prevent his attributing his brother's sickness to 
himself, his misery to his own happiness ; and he 



196 THE HALL. 

looked at himself as little better than the de- 
stroyer of one with whom from very infancy his 
own life had been bound up. This painful scene 
had lasted for three days, when it was closed by 
one still more overwhelming. Sir Henry had 
taken my arm to leave the sick chamber, he had 
just with the utmost difficulty persuaded Arthur, 
who could never be brought to quit by day or 
night his brother's bed, to go into the park for 
half an hour, while the nurse watched by Har- 
ry's side. He was more quiet than usual — he 
had sunk into a sort of doze — and this had of 
late generally lasted about half an hour. We 
had not, however, left the room for above five 
minutes, when a violent shriek hurried us back 
again. The tale of agony was soon told. While 
the nurse had been for a moment at the door, the 
delirious man had sprung from the bed, — an 
effort which he had never before attempted, — 
rushed to the window, pushed it up, and before 
the least interruption was possible, had thrown 
himself headlong from it. The fall was certain 
death ; and Arthur, who was almost below the 
room, was the first to throw himself upon the 
crushed and disfigured form in which life had 
lately dwelt with such energy and power. 

No language can describe that hour — those 
days of agony. The hopeless, nerveless, de- 



THB HALL. 197 

jected sufferings of the old father — the pale wast- 
ing misery of Lucy — or the deep compressed 
agony of Arthur. But bitter as was this afflic- 
tion, it was, I believe, a precious seed-time to his 
soul.- Thoroughly and for ever was he weaned 
from earthly things, and when, as we did repeat, 
edly, we bowed our knees together in prayer, 
with what an eagerness of aspiration did he ask 
for spiritual grace ! How earnestly did he pray for 
pardon for the many times wherein he had resisted 
the gracious purposes of God ; and turned his mer- 
ciful dealings into occasions of iniquity. 'Oh!' 
said he, ' that I could pray for the dead too. I 
would live for centuries even in this misery of 
mind, could I but spend them in prayer for him 
who is taken away ; but it must not be.' The 
very reserve which had always marked his cha- 
racter was thrown aside towards myself; and 
now that the curtain was withdrawn from it, I was 
astonished at the deep workings of soul which 
were manifested to me. I trembled for him ; for 
I greatly feared that these exhausting throes of 
his active spirit would prove too powerful for the 
bodily frame wherein it was enshrined. My fears 
were not groundless. He was evidently worn 
out before the day came for committing to the 
earth the body of his beloved brother. He would, 
however, be present with us. His fine features, 
R2 



198 THE HALL. 

pale as the driven snow, were firmly fixed by the 
force which he exerted over them : not a single 
tear — not one stifled sob — not one groan escaped 
from him. Nor did his eye refuse to search out 
the dark and uncertain extent of the St. Aubyn 
vault, which had been opened last to receive the 
mother of him who was now borne there in the 
spring of life, or rather in the early prime of 
manhood. He turned" away when the service 
was concluded, with the same composed air which 
he had preserved during its continuance ; but I 
could plainly see how violent was the struggle, 
and I could in some degree imagine how severe 
must be the price which nature would exact from 
him, for this stifling of her fiercest eruptions. I 
returned with him to the Hall, and spent much of 
the remainder of the day with him and Lucy. 
He still maintained for the most part the same 
composure of appearance which had marked him 
at his brother's grave ; but it was most evident 
that the bolt had stricken his heart. The dejec- 
tion of his spirits I'ather increased, and his health, 
which had never been robust, began to fail. 
Symptoms of that same insidious complaint which 
had carried off" his mother, made their alarming 
appearance. The hectic flush, lighting up with 
its sudden glow his pale and withered features, 
like the red gleam of sunshine which escapes 



THE HALL. 199 

from the edge of the thunder-cloud, and sheds a 
glaring and yet darkened light over nature ; the 
feverish night, and all the other harrowing ac- 
companiments of consumption, (imprinted, alas ! 
with deep and melancholy distinctness by some 
.home scene, upon the memory of almost all,) 
were soon noticed by every one around him. It 
was indeed an affecting sight to witness the bridal 
employments of Lucy ; to see the devotedness of 
her affection, as she watched over his sinking 
health. He loved her with the fondest affection, 
and her tenderness soothed and refreshed his 
wounded spirit, but its effect was only that of the 
balmy breath of spring upon the frame in which 
death has already fixed his dart. It plays 
around the temples — it refreshes — it promises to 
invigorate the sufferer, but it cannot reach the 
seat of the disease. ' It seems,' he would say, 
' as if there were a sort of secret sympathy be- 
tween us, and it cannot be long before I am laid 
beside him. My poor Lucy, thy bridal days 
have been indeed darkened,' and as he gazed 
upon her, he saw the tear which she in vain 
struggled to repress, start into her beautifuf eyes, 
and fall hastily down. He tried to cheer her. 
He spoke of the probable effect of the next 
spring upon his health, and she caught at the 
treacherous hope, and reposed for a moment in 



200 THE HALL. 

his words. But it was a moment's hope dearly- 
purchased ; for it is in the pauses of sorrow, 
when the eye has been for a little while turned 
away from its steady gaze upon its misery, that 
the full overflowing sense of agony rushes like 
an ice.bolt upon the soul. There is nothing in 
affliction like the first wakening sensation, when, 
after an indistinct sense for an instant of the un- 
seen presence of some heart-rending remem- 
brance, it comes home to the sickening spirit in its 
terrible reality. But it was not thus that he 
usually soothed her sorrow. His soul was daily 
opening to the blessed realities of the gospel of 
peace. He drank deeply of those healing streams, 
and he could point the weeping eye of his wife to 
that calm and peaceful hope which was already 
gladdening his broken spirit. Never did I wit- 
ness the end of one who was so speedily ripened 
into an unusual fitness for the presence of his 
Lord. The depth of his humility, the strength 
and simplicity of his faith, the chastened glow 
and holy fervour of his spiritual afiections was 
such, as I never witnessed in any one else. The 
power of God's grace had penetrated his inmost 
soul ; and his naturally noble character was ele- 
vated and sublimed almost above the highest 
permitted standard of earthly perfection. His 
decline was very gradual, and he was allowed to 



THE HALL. 201 

continue with us until he had almost taught Lucy 
to look forward, as he did himself, beyond the 
dark interval of their approaching separation. 

To the very last he cheered and comforted her 
heart,^ — strong himself in heavenly strength. — 
And when she knelt beside the bed upon which 
he had just drawn his last breath, and had seen 
how mercifully he was dealt with in that last 
mysterious struggle ; how he seemed rather sleep. 
ing more calmly than of late, than entering the 
cold waters of mortality ; and when his last words 
of faith and hope, through a risen Saviour, still 
sounded upon her ears, she could thank her gra- 
cious Father, even with a bleeding heart, for all 
his dealings with her. I can never forget her 
appearance when I first saw her, after she had 
exchanged her bridal dress for the weeds of 
widowhood ; nor can any other events ever call 
again into like activity those feelings with which 
I watched her pursuing, day by day, her desolate 
path through life in quiet beauty. 

There was something perfectly sublime in the 
support which the faith of Jesus administered to 
her, and often have I said within myself, — Where, 
in all the fancied tales of the drama, was there 
ever exhibited a nobler example of moral gran- 
deur ; — she lived for others, whether it was to 
cheer the old man, who had none else to lean upon 



202 THE HALL. 

beside herself, or like some benignant spirit, to 
breathe peace and happiness over the troubled 
heart of any of her poor neighbours. She too 
was dealt with in mercy. She was granted to us 
for a season, to manifest in the weakness of youth- 
ful widowhood, the strength of the soul which is 
stayed upon God ; but she was not long delayed 
from her rest. Her stricken spirit did not flutter 
and dash itself against the walls of its prison 
house, but yet in spite of this, it was evident that 
she would not much longer be separated from 
those whom she had loved so tenderly, and all of 
whom had one by one been transplanted before 
her into paradise, leaving her to bear the chills 
of life alone. Perhaps her constant attendance 
upon her husband had sowed within her too sus- 
ceptible constitution the seeds of that disorder, 
which is the peculiar enemy of the fairest and 
loveliest amongst us. 

It had taken long to bow down her husband's 
Strength, but her's melted away as rapidly as 
the snow wreath before the suddenly awakened 
breath of spring. The fair flower was hardly 
struck, before its head drooped for ever, or rather 
before it was taken from earth, to bloom with 
new and increased beauty in the courts of the 
higher house of her heavenly Father. For she 
too died so, as rather then to begin to live, full 



THE HALL. 203 

of quiet peace, and humble faith in the Saviour 
of penitent transgressors. 

Once more I stood over the open vault ; once 
more I pronounced the words of hope and resig- 
natiort ; once more I turned away from the clos- 
ing grave to support the tottering steps of deso- 
late affliction. 

' I am a poor weak old man, and as desolate 
as the withered bough of yonder oak,' said Sir 
Henry, feebly, as he pointed my eye to the 
blanched and shattered arms of the tree which 
the bolt of heaven had struck — ' It cannot be 
long before my turn comes. God grant that I 
too may be ready.' 

Most heartily did I respond to his prayer, and 
many a time afterwards did I repeat it again, 
before the last niche in that spacious vault was 
filled with the earthly remains of the last of the 
St. Aubyn name. This was not, however, for 
some years afterwards : but it was a relief when 
it did happen. The last blow had completely 
sunk the feeble old man to the earth. He saw 
no one except myself and his few immediate at- 
tendants. He would transact no business, and 
fell into a lethargy of spirit too nearly approach- 
ing to idiotcy to allow even of any apparent 
ripening for another world. He seldom left his 
study, except when the church bell summoned 



204 THE HALL. 

him to the house of prayer. It was a most af- 
fecting sight to see his tottering steps feebly sup- 
ported by his stick, as he followed the winding 
path which brought him to the church-yard gate. 
He always refused assistance, or even company, 
as he passed along. ' God hath made me alone,' 
he would feebly say, — ' and why should I seek 
to alter his will ?' He sat alone in the deserted 
pew ; and when the last stragglers of the con- 
gregation were departed, he would go to that side 
of the church-yard where his dead were hidden 
out of his sight, and after a short interval he was 
seen again tracing his sorrowful way home to his 
desolate abode. None could ever guess exactly 
what passed in his mind during this weekly visit, 
which he paid to the resting place of those pre- 
cious relics of beloved mortality ; for there was 
a sacredness about the sorrows of the old man, 
which pi-evented every curious eye from risking 
the possibility of wounding his feelings, by lin- 
gering near the place. There was no apparent 
difference in his health — the flame fluttered on, 
but it did not seem to sink lower in the socket, — 
when one Sunday I missed him from his ordinary 
seat. I walked up to the Hall when the morning 
service was concluded, but I found that the 
thread of life was already broken. He had set 
out as usual at the sound of the second chime. 



THE HALL. 205 

His old attendant fancied that there was an unu- 
sual want of steadiness in his footsteps as he left 
the house ; and followed him with cautious affec- 
tion at a little distance. He was soon certain 
that his apprehensions were not unfounded ; but 
his master had fallen ere he could reach him ; 
and before he could be conveyed to the Hall, the 
feeble spark of hfe was thoroughly extinguished. 
Few, perhaps, can fully appreciate the feelings 
with which I once more performed over a mem- 
ber of the St. Aubyn family, the last offices of 
the Church of England. The affections, the 
pleasures, the anxieties, and the woes of life 
crowded • upon my eye ; — the vanity of earthly 
honours ; the emptiness of earthly pleasures ; 
the hollowness of its joys ; the infinite moment of 
eternity ; the unspeakable mercy of redemption, 
were all painted before me in the clearest col- 
ours. I cannot, to this day, walk through the 
grass-grown court-yard of the Hall, without 
their forcible recurrence to my mind ; nor can I 
look, without similar impressions, at the hatch- 
ment which closes the long train of armorial 
bearings, in which the figured death's head has 
supplanted the honourable crest of the extin- 
guished house. 



THE GRANDFATHER. 



" Such age there is, and who can wish its endl" 

"The dew of heaven is lil?e thy grace, 
It steals in silence down; 
But where it lights, the favoured place, 
By richest fruits is known." 



THE GRANDFATHER. 

CHAP. I. 

THE CHURCH-YARD. 

As we pass on through hfe, the great multi- 
tude of its various scenes and impressions fade 
successively from our remembrance, hke the 
dreams of a feverish night. To retrace them in 
their intricate abundance, and see them in the 
<5olours with which they were decked when pre- 
sent with us, is as impossible as it would be to 
remember the various forms and shades of the 
clouds which have passed over us. We are lost, 
if we attempt it, in a labyrinth of thought ; our 
land-marks become fainter and more obscure, till 
they absolutely vanish from our aching gaze ; 
but amidst this common blank of memory, there 
are some scenes which this fantastic faculty here 
and there selects, to preserve as indelibly as the 
characters graven upon a rock. To what they 
owe their preservation, we hardly know ; but 
they are certainly the clearer, and stand out in 
S2 



210 THE CHXmCH-YARD. 

bolder relief through the general destruction of 
what was once crowded round them. One of 
these relics of past impressions is now before me. 
It was fifteen years ago, on the 1st of June last, 
that I stood on the side of my garden which over- 
looks the church-yard, to admire the glorious 
prospect which it afforded me. It had been a 
cold and backward spring ; winter had lingered 
on, and its unpropitious touch had long retarded 
vegetation ; but the weather had suddenly altered ; 
the chilling mantle was withdrawn ; and in the 
last fortnight, all nature, animate and inanimate, 
seemed at once to start into life after their wintry 
slumber. You might almost see the grass spring, 
and the trees burst into leaf. The rapidity of 
the change reminded me of those wintry pictures 
which bear in cunning art the filling up leafless 
branches in hidden colours, to flush forth into 
their interminable variety of light and shade, as 
the warmth of the fire falls upon them. It was 
one of those beautiful evenings, when all that is 
softest in sound or colour seems profusely ex- 
pended for the delight of man. The red rays of 
the sun, as his burnished glory lit up the western 
heavens, fell full upon the woods which rose on 
the further side of the village ; not with that 
power from which at mid-day they seemed almost 
to sink, as too great for their tender sprays, but 



■a ■ 



THE eHURCH-YARD. 211 

anellowed and softened, like the sounds of the 
trumpet heard over the waves. The old grey 
•stone of the church-spire beamed on the one side 
with rosy light, and sunk on the other into dark- 
er shade, whilst its gilded weather-cock, and the 
upper lattices of the scattered cottages, gave 
back like briUiants, the broken rays of the glo- 
rious luminary. The air was full of its winged 
tribes, humming their songs of praise as they 
wheeled round and round, or rose and fell, with 
unceasing activity, in all the full happiness of ex- 
ulting animation. The village green was not yet 
forsaken, and the noisy mirth of its merry, 
hearted occupants came softly from a distance 
upon the evening breeze. It was impossible not 
to give way to the influence which was abroad. 
The power of evening had come over me, and I 
was lost in a maze of musing meditations. I 
was interrupted by the sound of feet, which had 
already advanced within a short distance before 
they had attracted my observation. The sound 
came from a sheltered corner of the church-yard, 
where, under the shade of an old elm, was raised 
the turf-covering of three recent graves. As I 
listened, I heard the sound of low-spoken words. 
The voices were those of youth and of age, not 
of querelous age, nor of noisy youth — for the 
exuberant gaiety of the one seemed depressed by 
natural affliction ; and the lowered tones of the 



212 THB CHURCH-YARD. 

Other, upheld by habitual cheerfulness. Both, 
however, were evidently mourners. They were 
the only remaining members of what had been a 
few weeks before one of our happiest and most 
prosperous families. The childless old man and 
his orphan grandchild were now come to look 
at the spot to which the remains of the children 
of the one, and the parents of the other, had been 
lately borne. I watched them in silence, fearing 
to interrupt their conversation. 

' Can they see us, grandpapa ?' was the first 
word that reached my ears, ' Do you think that 
they can see us ? ' 

'Yes, my dear, I believe that the spirits of 
those who have died in faith, are allowed to see 
what happens to those who are left behind.' 

' Then that is why you like to come here, is it, 
because you think that they are near to you 
here ? ' 

' No, Ruth, they cannot be nearer to us here, 
than every where else ; their souls are not buried 
here ; it is only their bodies which are laid here 
to moulder and become dust. When their bodies 
lay, as you saw them, cold and dead, then the 
spirit which had dwelt in them was gone again 
into God's keeping, and there they are now, and 
not in their cold graves. I think they are near- 
est to us when we say at night those prayers in 



THE CHURCH-TARD. 213 

■which they used to join with us ; and sing those 
hymns which they sang.' 

^ Then, why is it that you come here V 

' Because it brings again into my mind all that 
I felt -when we laid them in their graves ; and 
because I love to see that even the place where 
their dust lies is nicely kept and guarded.' 

' And will they indeed become dust ? Oh then, 
I shall never, never see mother again.' 

* You will never see her again here, my dear, 
but the time will come when God will gather to- 
gether the dust of the earth, and then you will 
see her again with joy, if you are what she was, 
a servant of Jesus Christ.' He paused for a mo- 
ment, but perceiving that Ruth was still sobbing 
aloud, he went on. ' And think, too, how much 
happier and safer they are now, than when they 
had only got us to help them. When the fever 
became bad we could not cure the headache 
which made them groan, but now they are quite 
«afe, and quite happy, and that for ever, because 
they are with Jesus Christ. Think of that, my 
love.' 

The old man took the weeping child in his 
arms as he spoke ; and I could see, as he pressed 
her to his bosom, that his own cheeks were wet 
with tears. There was a sacredness in their 
grief which I could not bear to disturb ; and 



214 QUIETNESS IN JOY. 

fearing that they might observe me, I turned 
silently from the place, full of what I had just 
witnessed. The last words which reached me 
from the lips of the old man recalled forcibly to 
my mind those beautiful lines which seem, like 
the remembrance of some sweet music, to be 
always present with me, when I have wept my- 
self over the graves of beloved ones who have 
slept in Jesus. I could not help repeating them 
now, as I left the church-yard gate. 

' We gladlier rest 
Our darlings on earth's quiet breast, 
And our hearts feel they must not break. 

Far better they should sleep awhile 

Within the church's shade, 
Nor wake, until new heaven, new earth, 
Meet for their new immortal birth, 

For their abiding-place be made ; — 

Than wander back to life and lean 

On our frail love once more. 
'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose 
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse, 

How grows in paradise our store.' 



CHAP: II. 

Q.UIETNESS IN JOY. 

Andrew Gray had been born in our villagey 
and had never left it. He was a fisherman by 



QUIETNESS IN JOY. 215 

occupation, and was a man of such a spirit as 
Walton would not have disowned for a brother. 
He had married the daughter of a neighbour for 
whom he had formed an early attachment, and 
who was not unworthy of his affection. There 
was not such another couple in the parish as An- 
drew and Ruth Gray. The cheerfulness of their 
tempers, and the kindness of their manners made 
every one their friend ; and no stranger could 
pass by the little garden which surrounded their 
cottage, without stopping to notice and admire its 
beauty ; for if the brightness and gaiety of its 
flowers did not catch the eye, the sweetness of 
the dame's favourite honey-suckle was sure to be 
wafted to them, and entice them in. The cottage 
stood very near to the sea-shore, sheltered by a 
turn of the hills from the violence of the wind ; 
and encircled by a belt of apple trees which 
flourished under that protection. It was a beau- 
tiful sight in the early spring, when every spray 
of the orchard was powdered with its brilliant 
flowers, to see the little cottage smiling in the 
midst of them, with the annuals blooming before 
the door, the violets creeping along the bank ; and 
the full buds of the early honeysuckle just pro- 
mising to bui'st into their fragancy and lustre ; 
and if you went by it towards evening, it was a 
still more interesting object. For then you would 



216 



QtriETNESS IN JOT. 



see Ruth, who had put every thing inside and- 
around the cottage into its cleanest and neatest 
order, and brought the well-poUshed table from' 
the corner of the room, and put a plain set of tea- 
things, their wedding present from the old Rector^ 
out upon it, while the kettle sung upon the fire, 
— then you might see her sitting near the open 
door of the cottage busy at her work, while her 
little Grace, who was 'staying up to kiss her fa- 
ther, was playing near her, as both of them wait- 
ed for the return of Andrew from the fishing which 
he had just commenced for the season. But it 
,was not only the peacefulness of their domestic 
life, or the cheerfulness of their temper, which 
gave them an interest in my eyes : nor was it only 
the decency of Andrew's deportment, his regular 
attendance at church, or the firmness of his refu- 
sal to join in the common crune of smuggling. 
It was the presence of that blessed principle of 
love to God, from which these good fruits resulted^ 
that I especially delighted to contemplate. They 
had both borne a most respectable character^ 
even from their childhood ; but it was not, as h& 
often told me, until they had been sometime mar- 
ried, that they had truly given up their hearts al- 
together to God. It was a gradual work in both 
of them. The dews of heaven stole gently down 
upon their souls, converting and renewing them. 



OaOL. 



QUIETNESS IN JOY. 217 

in their simple and diligent attendance on the ordi- 
nary means of grace. The loss of an infant was 
employed by their heavenly Father, in advancing 
the work ; and they had long blessed him for this 
precious, though at the time, most severe afflic- 
tion. My pleasantest and most refreshing visits 
were to their cottage. There is an instructive 
reality in the piety of such humble believers ; and 
in them the blessed characters of grace were not 
marred and blotted by the prevalence of earthly 
infirmity : They might be seen in all their true 
beauty and comeliness, as the diiferent trials and 
events of common life, called them into exercise. 
Their days passed on for the most part in peace- 
ful evenness : their little Grace grew up beneath 
their eyes, inheriting her parents' cheerfulness, 
and imbibing their piety. She married a young 
man who had long been as a son to the Grays, 
and who for some time past had joined in Andrew's 
fishing. As they had no other child, and the cot- 
tage was roomy, it was determined that they 
should not separate. The happiness of the old 
people seemed to be complete, when they thus 
witnessed the security and comfort of their beloved 
daughter ; and it was a goodly sight for others to 
see them living together, in holy harmony, sane- 
tified by faithfpl prayer, daily poured forth to- 
gether ; or to hear them, as the evening of Sun^ 



218 JOY IN SADNESS. 

day closed in, singing to some simple tune, a 
hymn of heart-felt praise. 



CHAP. III. 



JOY IN "SADNESS. 



StrcH happiness as this rarely continues long 
without interruption. It is not that our Heavenly 
Father metes out to us our blessings grudgingly, 
and envies us our joys, for ' God is love ;' it is 
that the aifections, even of renewed hearts, are 
too earthly to bear such undisturbed happiness ; 
if the sunshine lasted the whole day through, we 
should forget that the night must come ; were the 
earth around us never moved, we should become 
rooted here ; and his gracious purpose is to fit us 
for being transplanted into a better soil. The 
Grays had hitherto tasted little of this necessary 
discipline, but the time of affliction came at last. 
On returning from fishing, one day, Grace's hus- 
band complained of indisposition ; he grew hotter 
and more restless through the night, in spite of 
all her mother's remedies. By the succeeding 
evening the fever was-so much increased, that it 



JOY IN SADNESS. 219 

seemed necessary to send for medijcal advice. 
Gray returned with some medicine, and with the 
promise of a visit early the next day from the 
doctor himself. It was evident when he arrived, 
that the disease had been rapidly advancing ; 
through the whole of the preceding night, the sick 
man had been delirious, and though now a little 
quieter he appeared to be greatly distressed. The 
apothecary's report was most alarming ; the most 
violent remedies afforded but little promise of a 
successful application. They were tried, and 
prayers were mingled with them by the pious in- 
habitants of the cottage, that if it might be so, 
the cup of sorrow should be turned away. But 
there was not one pining word uttered, as if they 
had forgotten that a Father's hand had prepared 
the draught in mercy. Nor was a single mur- 
mur allowed to mingle with their natural sorrow, 
when, on the ninth day of anxiety and nursing, 
the worn-out frame of the young man sunk be- 
neath the violence of the fever. 

I was with them early on that day, and my 
tears fell with those of her who was left thus 
suddenly a widow ; but I had cause to praise 
God on their behalf, as well as to seek succour 
for them. 

The funeral was an affecting sight, many were 
present at it, and there were few dry eyes ; when 



220 JOY IX SADNESS. 

the holy prayers and blessing were over, the by- 
standers walked one by one to the open grave, 
and cast in their sprig of rosennary ; some wept 
for the dead whom they had lost, and some for 
the living who were left behind, and some because 
all were weeping around them ; but all wondered 
how the Grays could bear up under such a loss. 
They had known their Love for one another, but 
alas ! too many of them knew not the strength 
which was given to them in that trying hour, by 
their Lord's presence with them. It was a touch- 
ing sight which met my eyes, when I walked 
down to the cottage in the evening, in order to 
speak some words of consolation to the mourners. 
The little Ruth was dressed in deep, though com- 
mon black, and the widow's cap clung closely 
round the brows of her almost girlish mother. 

There is something peculiarly affecting in a lit- 
tle child arrayed in the • garments of mourning. 
Their innocent mirth or wondering sadness con- 
trasts so strangely with the heart-broken grief of 
the elder sharers of their dress of son'ow ; they 
are so innocently insensible to the loss they have 
sustained. This was very much the impression 
produced upon me by seeing the little Ruth play- 
ing by her mother's side. Not that she was 
small enough to be altogether insensible ; — but 
thoughts of sorrow could not abide in that young 



JOY IN SADNESS. 221 

heart — sin and care had not yet made room for 
them, and death itself was more hke some sad 
dream which her mother's kiss robbed of its ter- 
rors, than that bitter reahty which smote to the 
heart of the bereaved Grace. She was just be- 
ginning to reahze her situation. The blow had 
stunned her at first : — she had fallen, but almost 
without sense of pain, so sharp had been the 
stroke ; but now she had awoke to a full sense of 
her loneliness in life ; — yet even in this hour of 
sadness, she was supported. There was one 
walking with her in the fire, and " His form waa 
like the Son of God." We prayed together, and 
gathered fresh strength as we spoke to Him who 
is the comforter of those that mourn. I could 
easily perceive that her whole heart was poured 
out in earnest supplication. I left the cottage 
with my thoughts full of her ; and tempted at 
times to gaze with a sickening eye upon the years 
of loneliness which might lie before one so young, 
and, with the exception of her aged parents, so 
solitary in this populous world. Little did I know 
how soon those who had been so rudely parted, 
would be re-united ; or the badge of widowhood 
exchanged for the crown of salvation. On the 
very next morning, the fever which had laid her 
husband low, and which from its malignant cha- 
racter had been highly infectious, appeared in 
T2 



222 JOY IN SADXE3S. 

her. From the first it defied all resistance ; — and 
having less strength to overcome, it executed its 
commission in a much shorter time than in her 
husband's case. The fellow rose-bud to that 
which she had laid in his coffin, was not too far 
opened to be put by her mother in her own ; the 
ground was scarcely settled over him, when it 
was again disturbed to receive into its keeping, 
her who had been so lately the deepest mourner 
at his grave, and who was now laid down peace- 
fully with the same words of faith and hope, to 
rest for awhile by his side. It was a hard trial 
td the old people. They had joined their hands 
in holy wedlock, and now they lived to join their 
dust together beneath the church-yard elm. But 
" it was the Lord" — and they had served him 
long enough to know that he " doeth all things 
well." The angel of death had not yet, however, 
accomplished his work. The fatal effects of 
nursing her daughter were soon seen in the aged 
mother — full of faith and of hope, she breathed 
her last — and within a few days, the hushed, 
though heavy tread of the bearers of mortality 
again approached the burying place of the Grays. 
Two of the family were left : joyfully would the 
old man have heard the summons for himself to 
follow those who were gone, could he have taken 
with him that unprotected little one — but she was 



JOY IX SADNESS. 22S 

spared, and he was left to watch over her — with 
the docility of a child he received his master's 
charge ; and though his heart was weighed down 
with natural grief, yet cheerfully did he set out 
its due performance. Andrew had reached that 
time of life at which he was expecting gradually 
to retire from his fatiguing toil. His own per- 
sonal earnings would almost support himself and 
his wife through the remaining stages of their 
journey ; and it had been his hope that he might 
soon resign his business into the younger and 
stronger hands of his daughter's husband. But 
this hope had now vanished, and without a murmur, 
the old man prepared to go through all the labour 
which lay before him. Sickness and death had 
drained his store ; and the little orpha;n of his 
family must look to him for every thing. He 
spoke of all this to me with cheerful submission. 

' Thank God, Sir, I have health and strength 
enough yet, and with his blessing I may buffet it 
on for many a day.' 

' You will be sadly lonely, I am afraid, neigh- 
hour,' said one to him, ' in the boat by yourself.' 

' Thank you, James, for thinking of me, but 
how can a man be alone, if The Blessed One is 
with him : I am never less lonely than when I am 
with my own thoughts.' 

He set diligently about his usual occupations. 



224 JOY IN SADNESS. 

He confided his little Ruth through the day to the 
care of a neighbour, whose piety and judgment 
he could trust ; but as soon as ever he reached 
home he sought her, and brought her to the cot- 
tage. It was delightful to see the ruggedness of 
man's nature charmed out of him by her infantine 
simplicity ; he tended her like the most gentle 
nurse, and she lay down to rest peacefully, be- 
cause it was by his side, and because she had just 
said some hymn which he had taught her, and 
bowed her knee with him to lisp her heart's 
early prayer. The only sad time in her day 
was when he left her, and its brightest moment 
was when she was again summoned by his voice. 
Sunday was her day of joy, because he was not 
obliged to go to sea and leave her ; their nook at 
church was never empty, nor was any other filled 
by a truer worshipper. Such was their life until 
she was old enough to be taken with him in the 
boat when the weather was calm ; or to be left 
in charge of the cottage, and allowed to busy her- 
self in preparing for his return. Her character 
was opening into lovely proportion. There was 
an exquisite sweetness of temper, and an over- 
flowing exuberance of spirit, which shielded her 
from the dangers incident to her peculiar situation. 
She was neither dull nor forward : her downcast 
look and deepened blushes whenever she excited 



JOY IN SADNESS. 225 

observation, ga,ve sufficient evidence of her free- 
dom from obtrusiveness ; and you could not hear 
the full-hearted joyousness of her merry laugh, 
without feeling that there had been no chill to 
repress the early spring of her spirit. There was 
that, moreover, in which old Andrew even more 
rejoiced ; — the opening promise of early piety. 
She loved to sit upon his knee, and read with him 
in the great old-fashioned Bible which gathered 
no dust on his phelf. She loved, before she went 
to bed, to kneel by his bed-side, and with her lit- 
tle hand>s clasped together to join in the fervent 
prayers which he offered up to God. She had a 
sweet voice too, and had learned several simple 
tunes ; and more than once I have heard her 
singing from the stern of his returning boat, in 
the quiet of the evening, some holy hymn which 
he had taught her. If I was seen, the song ceased 
in a moment, for there was nothing like display 
about, them. It was only by stealth that I could 
ever be a witness to the Christian beauty of their 
quiet lives. I shall never forget one such time, 
when accident made me an observer of their 
happy piety. It v/as the evening of a summer's 
day of unequalled beauty. There had not been 
a cloud to dim the clear blue of heaven. The 
heat had been very great, and as the sun declined, 
a light breeze breathed over the surface of the 



226 JOY IN SADNESS. 

waves. I had walked out to visit a sick man — 
alas ! it was the house of the swearer to which I 
had been called. He had long been a hardened 
offender, one who in health had often scorned my 
voice ; but sickness and the approach of death 
will bow the haughtiest spirits. He was glad to 
see me ; and I had been with him frequently : 
but I could trace no mai'ks whatever of the work- 
ings of the blessed Spirit of God, which alone can 
give repentance. Fear he had abundantly — at 
times awfully — present with him, but sorrow for 
sin I could not perceive, even in its lowest degree. 
He abhorred, indeed, his former sins, but, alas, 
with little or nothing of penitent abhorrence. 
The state of his mind continually reminded me of 
the words which the venerable Bishop Ken puts 
into the mouth of the dying sinner : 

' Ye worldly comforts which me caprive led, 
In my distress, — O whether are ye fled 1 
If you approach me, 'tis not to condole, 
But only to insult my flitting soul. 
Ye crowd upon my heart, pollute my prayer, 
Ye tempt me to take refuge in despair.' 

His heart was like a hard rock, which the fire of 
affliction had broken violently into shivers, but 
not one fragment of which it had softened. It 
was a painful sight to witness the strugglings of 
his natural mind. It seemed in vain that I en- 
deavoured to raise within him any holy or peni- 



JOT IN SADNESS. 227 

tent desires ; — there was no dew nor rain from the 
Lord. Still I persevered : and I begged of him 
to pray, knowing that if he prayed in sincerity, 
he would surely be heard, even though he had so 
long resisted the gracious Spirit of God. I had 
just left his cottage with a heavy heart, and was 
led on by the beauty of the evening, till I had 
reached the shore. I sat down by the side of a 
vast mass of rock, which projected into the sea. 
Often in storm and tempest had I watched the 
furious waves spend their strength upon that im- 
moveable barrier, and toss themselves high in 
spray above it ; but now the quiet waters slept 
around it — :Sometimes just swelling over it, with a 
ripple as gentle as an infant's play ; floating the 
sea. weed which was rooted to its side into endless 
combinations of elegance and beauty, and then 
sinking down, whilst from every crevice in the 
rock rushed down the silvery threads of the re- 
turning wave. As I was watching the beauty of 
the scene, I heard a child's voice singing near 
me. I looked out cautiously, and saw the little 
Ruth, who had prepared every thing for Andrew 
in the cottage, and was now come down to the 
shore to meet him. He was rather later than 
usual, and she had seated herself on the shingle 
beach to wait for his return. She was whiHng 
away the time in singing a favourite hymn which 



328 JOY IX SADNESS. 

the old man had taught her. It was a striking 
combination of sights and sounds, and I sat in full 
enjoyment of the simple harmony of the uncon- 
scious child. The rude verses which I caught 
were these : 

Oh Jesus ! Lord of earth and heaven, 

To thee we lift our eyes : 
To thee be praise and blessing given, 

From all beneathjhe slues. 

We see thy gracious love and power. 

The wants of all supply ; 
The wailing sea-hirds on the shore 

To thee their Maker cry. 

And still upon thy glonnus throne, 

Thy people are thy care ; 
Then deign our humble praise to own, 

And hear the fisher's prayer. 

For thou of old did'st often stand, 

And teach beside the sea ; 
And thou did'st choose thy faithful band, 

By the waves of Galilee. 

And thou did'st bless the fisher's toil, 

And share their homely food ; 
And calm for them the sea's turmoil 

When tossed upon the flood. 

Then hear us, Lord, and keep us now, 

For unto thee we pray ; 
Be thou our guard ; our pilot thou. 

Upon the watery way. 

Oh ! hear the fisher's child. 

Who prays for him to thee ; 
And guard him 'mongst the breakers wild, 

Of the rough and stormy sea. 

Oh ! shield his boat from ill ; 

And bless him in his store ; 
For upon such thou look est still, 

As thou did'st look of yore. 



JOY IN SADNESS. 229 

She ceased her song, and at the same moment 
I heard the quiet sighing of the waves disturbed 
by the hissing noise of the sparkUng bubbles 
which foamed round the prow of the fisherman's 
boat, as it shot round the rocky headland on my 
right hand. A few strokes of the oar 'brci!^\ t it 
to land. I watched their happy greeting. I 
heard the eager inquiries, in answer to which the 
child learned what had been the fisherman's suc- 
cess. It was a subject for Claude. The broad 
disk of the setting sun was just kissing the waves, 
his red rays streaming across the water in a path 
of glory, fell full upon the little boat, and the two 
figures busied by its side, and lit up the rocks 
which girded the coast, as well as the trees which 
could be seen through a narrow defile creeping 
up a distant hill. I watched them until the boat 
was drawn up to its usual place — the fish put into 
their baskets — the old man and his little one each 
loaded in proportion to their strength — and both 
returning with pious cheerfulness, to what would 
have been in the case of too many others, their 
solitary and unhappy home. The sight I had 
just seen, was forcibly contrasted with the miser- 
able state of the dying man whom I had so lately 
left. What would these have been in life with- 
oui the fear of God ? What would he be now 
in death with it ? Surely the way of heavenly 
U 



230 REST AT LAST. 

wisdom has not been overmuch commended. 
" Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her 
paths are peace." 



CHAP. IV. 



REST AT LAST, 



Old Andrew's appearance had undergone a 
great change when he came to me one morning 
more than twelve years after this time. They 
had indeed laid lightly upon him the load of in- 
creasing infirmity ; but constant labour had bent 
his upright form, and there was a trembling about 
his hand, and a sinking of the eye, to which of 
old he had been a stranger. * Ah ! Sir, the bur- 
den of years begins to press a Httle upon me ; but 
thank God ! who has given me many helps to 
bear up under it. Surely,' he continued, < good- 
ness and mercy have followed me all the days of 
my life.' 

He soon informed me of the especial object of 
his visit ; it was to announce to me what I had 
already heard from common report, that Ruth, 
the staff of his age, was about to marry a young 



REST AT LAST. 231 

man in every way worthy of her. My congra- 
tulations were sincere. 

' Thank you, Sir, thank you for all your kind- 
ness_ to me ; and thank God ! who has put it into 
your heart to be kind to me !' 

' Where are they to live, Andrew V 

' In the old house. Sir, and now they will take 
care of me, for I mean to give up my boat alto- 
gether into William's hands. ' His voice trembled, 
and he wiped away a big tear which stood in the 
corner of each eye. ' God has been very good 
to me. Sir, in bringing all this about, for I have 
been tempted lately to have strange fears of leav- 
ing my poor Ruth without any friend ; and yet, 
Sir, the tears will come into my eyes at times, 
when I think of it, for this is just how my old 
mistress and I used to speak these many years 
back, when our Grace was going to be married. 
Well ! she has long been better off than ever she 
would have been in this world. God give me 
such an end as her's was, and as soon as it is his 
will, now that I am not wanted here any more.' 

The devout prayer of the old saint was not 
very speedily answered. He lived to give away 
his grand-daughter. He lived to see her walking 
in the footsteps of her mother, to lean upon her 
affection as upon the tenderness of a daughter 
beloved, and to be delighted with the innocent 



232 REST AT LAST. 

prattle of her children, who loved no seat better 
than old Andrew's knee, and no amusement more, 
than to listen to his oft-repeated stories. In those 
calm hours which belong 

"To weary men when age is won," 

he had an unusual portion of sunshine : the mel- 
lowed light of a setting.sun, but of a' sun which 
promises to r!s3 again with renovated lustre. 
Not a mist hung round its setting ; not a cloud 
was there to dim its course. His body was pre- 
pared for death by calm and gradual decay, as 
his mind was fitted for another world, by increas- 
ing spirituality of affections. The flame of life 
rather sunk within him, than was suddenly ex- 
tinguished by disease. Painlessly in body, and 
humbly joyful in spirit, he ceased to breathe, and 
fell asleep in Jesus. 



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